


these fragments I have shored against my ruins

by deiectus



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Limbo, M/M, Memory Loss, Stream of Consciousness, Surreal, dreamscape, inception-esque, inceptionmess, mindscape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deiectus/pseuds/deiectus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t see Erik anywhere, but this is also the first time Charles has <i>physically</i> felt himself inside someone’s mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this is for brella ([pailette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pailette)). ♥ I took this and ran with it and turned it into my extremely self-indulgent stress relief, but she gave me the prompt and has cheered me on through it all. thank you so much. I _donut_ know what I would do without you.
> 
> many thanks go to ren ([seularen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seularen)) for multiple edits and readthroughs and listening when I babble. part 1, especially, would not be half as clear without her careful consideration and critical eye.
> 
> title is from t. s. eliot's _the waste land_.

_prologue_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Erik’s mind switches between soft blankets and cool steel so abruptly, off and on, that Charles nearly loses his balance. He supposes, were he to pull back into his own body to observe Erik’s, that he would only notice minute tensing in Erik’s neck. In here there is flickering light and the sound of screeching in the distance, metal whining against itself.

He can’t see Erik anywhere, but this is also the first time Charles has _physically_ felt himself inside someone’s mind.

He blinks through vision that cycles from blurry to clear and reaches out an arm, hoping to steady himself. His palm finds and attempts to anchor itself against rough whitewashed walls that shake, shifting up and down, and are no help at all. Charles pitches forward onto the moving floor—which is blankets? metal? sand?—and the world roars black. 

 

 

\---

 

 

The roaring is worse when he gains awareness—muffled and heavy, pressing against him with soundwaves manifest.

Erik is in front of him, and his mouth is moving, brow knitted in concern, his hands on Charles’s face. Charles can’t make out what he’s saying. His hands are barely there on Charles’s skin—Charles knows that they’re there, can see them there, but as before (wait, before?), there’s no tangible contact. It’s likely no different for Erik than holding his hands out into the air.

They’re in Charles’s favorite study in Westchester. The planes of Erik’s face are lit up beautifully by the fire as he kneels before Charles, who is only stuck in a chair here, not his wheelchair, can feel his legs this time, yes, can actually feel everything, but—he can’t move. He can only gape at Erik above him and he _fights_ until he can feel his own fingers begin to twitch.

Charles smiles at Erik, proud of this triumph, but where Erik’s face should be there is now only a smooth, blank surface. Charles watches in horror while Erik’s head tips backward and his body melts, oozing onto the carpet and swilling around Charles’s ankles.

Charles screams soundlessly. The room explodes in an instant and bleeds out and over everything in a brilliant red.

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles is flat on his back in… well, nothing really, this time. Air, maybe? Space?

He glances to his right where Erik is crouched, body poised perfectly. Charles can picture him uncoiling and lunging forward so easily. But at the moment he’s still, elbow resting on one knee, and gazing forward, away from Charles.

“Erik,” Charles says, and the sound bounces out and around them.

Erik turns, looks at where Charles is, and sees nothing.

Charles presses his eyes closed. He’s relieved when a sluggish spreading of black comes to block everything out.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

“Charles.” This time, it _is_ Erik who is speaking, and Charles can hear him. “Charles.”

Charles’s body shivers with a relieved sort of joy and he opens his eyes. “Erik.” He savors the name, the sound swirling around his tongue and falling hard on the final consonant.

He moves to lift his arms and suddenly he is standing. Erik stands next to him. Their surroundings are white, and their bodies cast grey shadows on ground that is steadily changing from white to black.

The skin around Erik’s eyes crinkle—a smile. He presses his palm into Charles’s wordlessly, and Charles relishes the touch, the feel of Erik’s hand solid and warm against his.

“Charles,” Erik says again, his expression sobering. “I’m not quite sure where we are.”

Charles hesitates for a moment, still looking at their hands.

“This is rather my territory, I’m afraid,” he says, pulling his hands away and slipping them into his pockets. He looks up at the overcast sky above them that had recently appeared and squints against the covered sun. Land slithers out of the darkness beneath them, giving form. Grass pushes up and against his shoes; a river carves out its path to their left.

When Charles looks back at Erik, he notices that Erik looks exhausted. Then, Erik notices Charles studying him, and sets his jaw. 

“I don’t think we’re trapped,” Charles offers, but Erik’s body is already fading away.

 

 

\---

 

 

His surroundings hadn’t been knocked out by a rush of color,  nor had Charles lost consciousness this time. Erik had merely gone pale around the edges until he’d been blurred and faded all over, and then was blown away as if by the slightest breeze. Charles had watched it, willed it not to happen, and was helpless. Perhaps this was not his territory after all.

He sighs and makes his way through the forest that was cropping up, moving what he thinks is west for the sake of having some direction. Calling out for Erik seems rather futile at this point. Whatever is controlling his mind would make Erik known to Charles when it felt like it, it looked like (something had to be controlling them, didn’t it?). Charles entertains the idea of reaching a new level of the subconscious as he walks.

After some time Charles reaches a city (all built of metal, of course) and finds Erik standing in front of a laundromat. The ground—if the smooth steel beneath his feet could be called that—shimmers in the sun.

“Some place you know?” Charles asks.

Erik frowns at the window in front of him. “I know that there is writing on that window, but I cannot read it.”

Charles peers at it. “I believe it’s in Polish.”

“I’m fluent in Polish,” Erik says quietly.

Charles presses a hand against his arm. “Not today you aren’t,” he murmurs.

As Erik sighs, Charles grips the fabric of Erik’s shirt and squeezes until he is satisfied that Erik isn’t going to go away anytime soon. Or, he hopes.

“I think we’re stuck in your mind,” he says finally.

Erik blinks once, slowly. “Can’t you get us out?”

“I think every time I try, your mind knocks me unconscious,” Charles smiles thinly. “Rather nasty defense mechanism.”

Erik nods, a bit absently, but Charles knows he’s heard. He waits, and Erik turns to him with a half smile. The sun sets behind him and illuminates the sides of his face against the sky. “Would you get a coffee with me?” he asks, and Charles suddenly remembers the last time they’d spoken had been in Cuba.

“Of course.”

 

 

\---

 

 

They find a diner after passing the same stretch of recurring buildings, Erik’s frown growing more and more severe as the minutes pass. By the time they reach the diner’s door, the building shudders and shifts into a cafe. Charles clicks his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Master of everything, now,” Erik comments dryly, and holds the door open for him. Charles picks a table next to the windows.

After their coffees have appeared, Charles leans back in his chair. There’s someone behind the counter and someone else mopping the floor in the back left corner, but they haven’t come up to approach them. Charles hopes they aren’t more than bits of Erik’s imagination cropping up to fulfill the setting of ‘coffee shop.’ He can’t make out their faces or the exact shape of their heads. It’s unnerving.

“I must say,” he says, if only to get that pained look off of Erik’s face, “I hadn’t expected to next see you like this.”

Erik’s face darkens and he seems to hunch in on himself. Charles wills himself not to wince.

 _I never meant to hurt you_ , Erik thinks. Charles closes his eyes and lets the thought wash over him like cool water, then breathes out. _I know_ , he responds. _I’m not angry with you_. It’s not as true as he’d like it to be.

Outside of Erik’s head, he’s angry with anyone who will allow him to be, which is no one, formally, so Charles is mad at the doctors and mad at his legs and mad with himself most of all. Thoughts of Erik are too difficult to be fully formed without being crippling, and so Charles has tried to lock them down.

Erik takes his hand on the table and Charles doesn’t have to read his thoughts to know that his every movement is an apology. He opens an eye to see that it’s him who’s fading now. Erik panics and grips his hand tighter, but Charles just laughs, a little, sad sound, as he watches the edges of his body turn white.

“Oh, my friend,” Charles murmurs, his throat thick from the way Erik has been looking at him, “I haven’t even touched my coffee.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Erik watches Charles disappear. He clenches the hand that had just held Charles’s until it’s a painful fist and his shoulders shake along with the crumbling of the buildings. He’s just about to think how artfully to destroy this city ( _metal,_ of course, why the fuck would it be anything different) when the ceiling crumbles down upon him.

 

 

\---

 

 

They’re at that beach in Cuba, of all places.

Charles breathes out, watches the ocean from where he’s sprawled back on his elbows. He stays in place until he can hear footsteps crunching out of the jungle and onto the sand. Erik sits down next to him. Charles doesn’t turn to greet him but knows that his clothes are wrinkled and dusty. 

He bites his lip and finally looks at Erik, who’s resting his arms on his thighs. He meets Charles’s eyes for a brief second and then looks away, mouth twitching in concentration. He turns his hands over and unfolds his palms slowly. Charles swallows, opens his mouth to speak—

—and their coffees from earlier appear in Erik’s hands, just like that.

Charles takes his when Erik hands to him. He wonders why, if they’re in Cuba, the climate isn’t hot-- why there’s barely any temperature at all. He sips his coffee (it’s perfect, just the way Erik used to make it for him). Charles doesn’t want to get melodramatic, but he’s not really sure how else to act here. He wants to think that they’re in a dream, and perhaps they are, but not quite entirely, as Erik can still consciously control things…

“How did you find me?” Erik asks suddenly. Charles blinks, snapped out of his thoughts (ha- _ha,_ he tells himself). He turns slowly. _Is that really important_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t. Charles runs his thumb up and down the handle of his mug. He can give this much to Erik, he supposes. 

“I don’t entirely remember if I was told how you’d gotten in such the fix that you were in, but I do remember Raven showing up and dragging me—” no dragging, really. She’d wrung her hands at the sight of the wheelchair, clearly unsure if she should push it to get him to go where she wanted or to lead awkwardly, and Charles had had to clear his throat and take care of his own _kidnapping._ “—to that red fellow—Azazel, yes?—and there was some smoke and then there you were, just…” Charles trails off, recalling how Emma Frost had glared at him, her skin and mind vulnerable as if to mock his morals, but Charles hadn’t cared for any of that. He’d only cared for Erik, lying on the couch before him. “… so very still, really."

He thinks about adding information that would make Erik feel secure: that he didn’t know where he was and probably never would, he’d just had gone with them (not quite happily), and the instant he’d reached for Erik’s mind it had been like the air had been ripped out of his lungs. Erik’s mind had surged up to meet his, pulling Charles in much deeper than he’d planned to go.

Instead, he continues where he left off. “I reached out to see what I could glean from your sleeping mind. And it… well, I guess I’d say it sucked me in.” Erik is watching him closely, always watching him so closely, and Charles has a sudden urge to hit him and say something like _well I can feel my legs here, alright_ _._ “I couldn’t pull back, and I lost consciousness. I imagine we’re still in the very same position now, but I have no idea of how we’d find out for sure. How we’re able to be like this, though… that’s a little beyond my understanding.”

Erik nods, processing. Charles would ask him if he’d been lonely all the time before he showed up, but—well, he knows that Erik is far too accustomed to being alone to be shocked by this.

“I missed your voice,” Erik says. Or, actually: thinks. Charles smiles. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. And it’s strange and disgusting, how much Charles can see that Erik obviously wants to touch him and how much Charles knows he wants to be touched, but he also knows how things are _on the surface_ and allowing this would make him selfish. Charles refuses to be misguided.

Erik seems to be remembering this now as well, for he’s rubbing his temple and looking at some spot between his shoes instead (and Charles knows, knows there’s a trading off at work here) of looking at Charles. “I wonder why Frost didn’t try.”

“I imagine she may have, but she has a rather handy defense that I don’t.” Charles shrugs one shoulder. “I’m sure it’s possible she could break off connection quite well with that diamond skin.”

He doesn’t say that he’d like to think Erik’s mind recognized him; can’t think he’s special. It’ll hurt far too much when this is all over, and who knows how long he’ll be stuck here.

Charles finishes his coffee and nearly laughs at himself. Of course, he doesn’t entirely care about leaving just yet. What a sap he is, to enjoy any time with Erik no matter where or how. 

Erik seems to have gotten control of his hands again and reaches out to cup Charles’s cheek. Charles continues to smile faintly, but he can feel it too, how his body shifts as it disappears. 

“I wonder if your subconscious is trying to tell you something,” Charles murmurs, teasing, and for a moment, the sudden look of fury on Erik’s face blurs into a shade of amusement. “See you soon.” Soon, ha, as if—

 

 

\---

 

 

He’s in Shaw’s— _Schmidt’s_ —office. Erik’s as old as he truly is, but small in comparison to everything else and— and of course he’d be in the same clothes, too. Sizes and proportions seem strange; Erik knows he’s well over six feet, but the guards tower over him.

Erik blinks, looks up to see Schmidt eating chocolate and saying something. The sound is muffled. Though most of that day had disappeared into a roaring horror of memory, Erik’s sure, for a grim second, that he knows what Schmidt’s saying. Every word.

“Erik?” But Charles’s voice is clear beside him, Charles who is wearing the same clothes, Charles who has a little hat that he’s toying with absently. Erik watches as Charles looks up at his hands, messing with the cap. He’s frowning. He’s smaller than Erik is. Erik blinks again and his vision blurs into fish-eye before focusing.

Charles is frowning determinedly now, hands on his hips. “I really… I’d quite like to know what’s going on.” He’s talking to him, but not looking at him. Charles always looked at him. Erik feels something twist in his stomach and fists his fingers in the cheap wool of his trousers. “Really, I…” Charles is still talking. His voice is slow and he blinks as if he is drugged. “I thought this was a memory of yours. I’ve been trying to clear Shaw’s voice for minutes now and nothing’s changed.” He pauses. “And he’s not even wearing that bloody helmet. Give me,” Charles runs a hand through his hair, face scrunching a bit in concentration, “give me a second, I’ll get us out of this.”

Schmidt lays the coin on the desk. Charles’s eyes narrow to focus in on it, and something in Erik seizes up. He doesn’t want Charles to see this. Erik turns to tell him to leave, but—

but Charles is gone.

There are footsteps behind him—the scene’s playing out differently; they’re bringing in his mother early.

Erik closes his eyes in defeat, and then he’s gone too. 

 

 

\---

 

 

They’re in Charles’s bed and Charles is naked beneath him, flushed and laughing. He’s wriggling, trying to free himself. Erik’s got his wrists pinned and is sitting across his hips. “Somewhere to be, Charles?”

Charles presses his lips together, but it’s a poor attempt at controlling his laughter. His eyes dance up at Erik and then darken when Erik kisses him. Erik’s grip loosens and Charles brings a hand up to smooth through Erik’s hair, curling his fingers against the back of his neck.  

His own eyes closed, Erik drags his open mouth down Charles’s cheek, his upper lip and teeth catching gently against the skin. His breaths are slow and loud in his ears. Charles is stroking his hand across the back of Erik’s shoulders, and Erik can hear his breathing as well. Erik nips softly at Charles’s jawbone and moves to his neck.

“Erik,” Charles says, suddenly still.

Erik ignores him, positions his mouth for a delicate bite over the tendon in Charles’s neck.

“Erik,” Charles says again. 

Charles fists a hand in Erik’s hair and gently (but firmly) pulls him away. When Erik looks at him, Charles is looking up at the ceiling. The corners of his mouth twitch, forming words soundlessly, and he closes his eyes.

“Charles?” Erik asks. He’s afraid to touch him.

Charles looks at him. There’s a strange tension around his mouth. “Erik,” he says carefully, “this never happened.”

Erik sits back. “What?”

Charles looks down. “I think I’d have liked it to.”

“I don’t understand,” Erik murmurs. His gaze also falls, and he stares in the direction of the dip in Charles’s collarbone.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Charles says, and he almost sounds like he’s going to laugh. A part of Erik wishes that Charles would quit saying that, but Erik can’t remember Charles using that phrase before. There’s suddenly nothing _before_ in his head. He can only recognize that they’re here, in Charles’s bed. They could have done many things before ending up here.

“It’s almost like dreaming,” Charles says thoughtfully. He takes one of Erik’s hands in his and looks at him. “Talk to me.”

Erik swallows. “I don’t have anything to tell you,” he hears himself say.

Charles frowns. “Pity.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Erik’s hands twitch. His fingertips scratch against something hard and cool. Metal is humming everywhere around him. He rolls his head to the side, opens his eyes.

He’s lying on his back and dressed in a suit. The jacket’s pillowed underneath his head. Charles is sitting up next to him, elbow resting on a knee. When he sees that Erik is looking at him, he smiles down at him, his eyes squinting against the sunlight. He’s so pleased, just— just how Erik remembers him. And for a moment, Erik can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe until—

“This was one of your dreams, wasn’t it,” Charles says absently, turning to look out at the sky. Erik exhales heavily, inhales. God, if Charles was silent, if Charles was just—

“You told me about it once. I don’t know if you were aware of that. Sometimes you thought so desperately in your sleep.” Charles’s voice is thick and slow and... entirely content. He’s probably thinking of ten other things besides Erik right now. And ten beyond that. Perfectly aware, perfectly thorough. Erik’s chest tightens as he breathes in, shakes as he breathes out. “And I,” Charles is still talking, “had really took you for the type to watch the sky on grassy hills, maybe, like me, but you, Erik, of course you would want to watch clouds from the top of some gigantic building in a city.”

Erik takes his gaze off the back of Charles’s head and really looks up at the sky. It’s blue and beautiful, wispy clouds moving sluggishly eastward. The breeze is tugging at Charles’s hair, and he looks beautiful. Beautiful as the day he helped Erik move a satellite dish; beautiful as the night they met, dripping and shivering and so, so very excited; beautiful in a way Erik had sometimes wished was somewhere in the world, just for him.  

 _You look beautiful_ , he tries to say. He can’t even open his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Charles murmurs. He turns and shuffles over until he’s holding himself above Erik, still smiling, and then Charles presses his mouth and body against his, skin as warm as sunshine.

 

 

\---

 

 

In a train station, on a bench, Erik has his hands clutching his knees. He’s staring at Charles, wide-eyed, intent. Charles crosses his legs and keeps reading a newspaper. The words are shaking on the pages, zipping back and forth across that expanse of white, and then begin to melt off the more that Erik watches them, the ink sliding down and over Charles’s trousers onto the ground beneath them.

 _Please look at me_ , he opens his mouth to say, but what comes out is: “I left you.”

Charles frowns.

 _When I’m not with you, when you’re not looking at me, I feel so cold. So alone._ “I left you on that beach,” Erik says again, surprised. He hadn’t planned to speak.

Charles sighs. He shakes the newspaper and the letters jump back into place, quivering.

 _Sometimes I think I could have stayed with you forever—_ “I left you there.” _—just the two of us, and we’d quit talking about the world because it didn’t—_ “I left you.” _—matter, it hurt too much when it mattered and I was so sick of everything mattering but you._  

“I left you!” Erik’s mouth is shouting, his voice is booming through the empty station with its high ceilings of stone and he _hates_ it, this horrific helplessness and Charles’s silence, but he can’t stop. His throat hurts, and Charles isn’t looking at him.

 _Please_. “I left you.” Why can’t he say anything else?

 _God, Charles, please_.

“I left you to die.” Oh God, no, that had never been his plan, he’d never—

Charles’s expression smooths and he clears his throat. He glances to the left when he hears a train’s whistle, shrugs his arm up from where it has been tucked against his side and shakes his wrist sharply to let his sleeve fall back until his watch shows. The train thunders past – going far too quickly for stopping at a station, far too quickly to even stay on tracks, Erik can hear the wheels screaming to him— and Charles turns. 

 _—_ for a second, Erik thinks he’ll look at him—

but Charles just lifts his legs up and stretches across the bench—

and Erik can only watch as Charles’s limbs move _through_ his.

_please—_

_please—please—_  

Something hears him this time. A rush of white moves in and blots out everything, even himself.

 

 

\---

 

 

“I love your legs. I love your ankles.”

Charles scoffs and leans back further into the pillows. “Listen to yourself.” He grins.

Erik laughs, almost a sob. He’s cradling Charles’s legs loosely in his arms. They’re naked, in some bed, it doesn’t matter what bed; it stretches on for miles, he’s got no orientation, but at least he knows wherever he is, it’s _here_. “Your calves.” He drops Charles’s legs to the bed and runs a palm up the curve in the bend through his calf and to the back of his ankle, gripping fast. “Your knees.”

“You’re drunk,” Charles says. When Erik glances up to smile at him, he sees Charles eyeing him warily. His smile is gone. “You’re drunk, Erik. You don’t say these things.”

 _I’m not drunk_. “I’m saying them now.”

“It’s different.” Charles frowns. “This is… different, it’s not—it’s not right.”

“I can talk to you, and you can respond. I don’t know what’s not right about that,” Erik says, and turns to lie next to Charles. He rests his arm on his chest, and—

and suddenly they’re clothed, lying on the grounds of the Westchester mansion—

in the rain at Auschwitz—

in the submarine in Cuba—

the beach—

the plane—

the CIA base—

the car—

that hotel in Albuquerque where—

the bar in Chicago when—

Paris—

Geneva—

Oxford—

And it’s moving too fast. Erik can barely see his surroundings but he knows what each one is. It’s too fast for him to see if Charles has any sort of reaction, but he knows that Charles is still there next to him, and through the next twenty places he reaches over and grabs Charles’s hand, limp in his own until _—_

 _—_ until Charles grips fast, and everything stops. 

Erik gasps once for air, and then again. They’re standing at a strange angle, Charles’s hand is going to leave bruises on his own, but then—the floor is righted, and the scenery, frozen in mid-switch between— _who knows where_ Erik thinks, relieved that his awareness has shrunken to the two of them—the scenery falls away, and everything is black, everything but him and Charles.

“My God,” Charles says, and his hand begins to shake in Erik’s palm as he blinks back (tears?—blinks back what?). He meets Erik’s eyes, grinning. “I thought I’d never catch up to you.”

Buildings slot into space as Erik blinks at Charles. Charles is still smiling at him in that little wry way he always did when he was thinking something offhandedly insulting about someone in their company. It had always been a battle for Erik to keep a straight face at those times, and in the end they’d just grinned at each other too much for Raven to handle.

Now, Erik just stares blankly at him.

Mainly because it’s _Charles_ , and Charles in a different way than before, Charles in the way—

Erik struggles. He can faintly remember coffee, and Cuba.

“Yes,” Charles says, and leads him to a table on a restaurant patio. Erik blearily recognizes it to be somewhere in England, and from the way Charles runs his fingers across the worn wood of the table, it’s probably a place Charles has been to many times. Erik sits. Charles releases his hand and sits opposite him, crossing his legs and placing his hands, fingers laced, on his knees. Erik clutches his. 

“Do relax, Erik,” Charles says softly, his eyes downcast. His cheeks are slightly pink, maybe from the weather (as if Erik has cared about the weather lately), maybe from embarrassment.

“I take it you have an idea of where we are?” Erik asks.

Charles lifts his chin, looks at Erik with a smile of triumph hovering around his mouth. “Your mind.”

Erik frowns.

Charles shrugs. “However you care to feel about it, I’m quite certain that’s where we are.”

“If we’re in my mind,” Erik says, his eyebrows rising as he looks around, “I would not expect to have placed us in… wherever this is.”

“That’s what’s so delightful.” Charles’s eyes are lit with excitement. Erik bites down on his teeth and thinks _no—no—no_ firmly enough that he’s able to hold Charles’s gaze, steady. 

“You may have never come across this particular area,” Charles begins, “but I have. I seem to be some sort of free agent here _—_ similarly to the way in which I find myself in the minds of others normally. It’s tricky to create things in dreams because I work from a limited array of things, but if you look closely, everything here resembles some part of places you’ve been.” He pauses, wets his lips. “I’ve merely rearranged things.” 

Erik’s frown grows more severe as he listens. Oh, of course, just another place for Charles to mess around in. “What do you want?”

Charles looks at him for a moment, something sweeping across his expression, clouding it. But then he blinks, and talks on as if he hasn’t heard Erik. “The details of things are unnoticed by the dreamer unless they’re important to the theme or… well, whatever the dream wants. I’m sure you’ve had dreams in places you’ve never been, places that you don’t pay attention to as you move through them. It’s how these things go.”

“It’s different.” Erik humors him. “Dreamers are rarely aware that they’re dreaming, much less of all of this you’re saying. I’m too much of myself to be dreaming.” 

“But not all of yourself, would you say?” Charles asks, opening a hand into the air. 

Erik shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “I suppose.” He thinks of how he couldn’t say words in a train station—but when had he been in a train station? And clouds, clouds over a tall building… he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to remember, but all that he can think of with clarity is what happened before all of this: meeting with his Brotherhood and planning something, then losing consciousness.

And, of course, while he’s trying to get his bearings, Charles continues to speak: “So we are somewhere between asleep and awake. And not quite ourselves, but—" 

Erik opens his eyes. Charles’s gaze is distant in satisfaction. He’s watching a fork as it spins before his outstretched palm. Erik’s mouth suddenly grows dry, because he knows that Charles is doing it. 

“We can do anything here, Erik. Anything we like.”


	2. part 1

 

> _It must be some one impression, that gives rise to every real idea. But self or person is not any one impression, but that to which our several impressions and ideas are suppos’d to have a reference. If any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that impression must continue invariably the same, thro’ the whole course of our lives; since self is suppos’d to exist in that manner. But there is no impression constant and invariable.  
> _
> 
> —David Hume,  _A Treatise of Human Nature,_ Bk. 1: Of the Understanding, Part IV, sec. VI

_part 1_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charles almost wants to ask _so what dreams did you have,_ but that would be oddly redundant and possibly perceived as a poor joke. He means to ask where Erik was when Charles was lost, supposing they were both lost—lost in Erik’s mind, Charles’s mind, a mix of both, whatever this is.

He’s raised two fingers to his temple and is staring hard at the grass in front of him, coaxing a wooden bench to form itself up and out of the— the whatever— the _earth_ of this place— while Erik has already brought up walls, brings forth such beautiful buildings that shatter the instant after they solidify. Charles’s creations come forth much more slowly, but they stay.

There is a bench in front of him after a few more minutes pass, and Charles sits across it, stretches out his legs and leans back as if he needs the rest.

He stares in Erik’s direction and tries to grasp hold of what exactly is going on.

His head still feels rather full of cotton and— and yet it’s _not_ his head, he tries to tell himself, but the thought— _thought of thought_ , _thought in thought_?— is gone. But Charles can feel its absence, and so he knows that— that is something. It was here, he knows what it was, and now it is gone. And yet not.

He presses the fingers of both of his hands to the sides of his head. His arms may be shaking.

Charles closes his eyes. He does not want to see Erik not looking at him.

The desire to understand his surroundings is strong, but there’s something hitting at it, trying to smooth it down. Ever the scientist, Charles thinks it may be Erik’s mind. Which is his mind, in Erik’s mind, acting upon the mind of whatever being he has here (where was his marked up copy of _Metaphysics_ when it might help?) and unless this body had a different mind from his own mind—

Charles exhales slowly. He sits motionless aside from his breathing before returning his hands to his lap, straightening out his back and neck, then opens his eyes to look forward. Erik still has his hands out in front of himself, but his creations are falling down like sand. After a moment, Erik’s shoulders stiffen further, and he glances over at Charles, wary. Charles gives him a small smile. It’s the least he can do, really, the least of all of the things he could and couldn’t do, especially here.

Erik blinks. Something passes over his face, and— there. He’s brought up a little bench of his own. Then, a tree, fresh grass, a pond, more trees, and suddenly—

a park.

Charles grins, and he swears he can see Erik’s jaw relax a fraction.

“Look at you,” Charles says.

The corner of Erik’s frown looks as if it may be fighting to become a smirk. “Indeed." 

“I’ve been thinking,” Charles starts. Erik nods for him to continue. “I think I’m not quite myself in your mind, either. I think we’re in your mind, by the way.” 

“If you were not quite yourself, how would you know?” Erik says after a pause. “Know that you weren’t quite yourself.”

“That’s where the quite comes in.” What Charles would do for a good cup of tea right now. So he thinks _tea tea tea_ over and over until one slots itself into his hand. “I think what there is of me allows me to see that. This is your mind, so how I am should probably affect how I appear here. And, considering that I can do much more here than my telepathy, perhaps you also could give yourself telepathy.” He shrugs. The tea tastes strange, and it takes him a moment to think this is probably how Erik imagined tea. Charles had never seen him drinking any. “Though I think the question of use and habit come into play here, too.”

Erik is quiet for a few moments before he responds. He’s been doing that almost every time Charles speaks to him. It’s things like this which remind Charles of what has passed and what will most likely pass; of that now they are yet themselves, if they had before been perhaps more bundles of emotion thrown around by Erik’s mind.

“You could levitate that fork with no problem, earlier,” he says finally.

Charles dips his chin in agreement. “True, but I’ve helped you train. I’ve thought through it enough.”

“Not everything is in the mind,” Erik says suddenly. He looks a bit surprised at himself.

Charles looks around them, hears the birds chirping to each other, the water lapping gently against the grass. How much of this was a soundtrack, a feed looped back? “Is it.”

 

 

\---

 

 

“We’ll, we’ve got to get ourselves a place to stay,” Charles says a few hours later, after he smiles at Erik enough that Erik’s got his park set up exactly as he likes it. Their surroundings haven’t changed in that time and they haven’t been separated. It seems, to Charles, that they’re finally in a place where they can gather their bearings and decide what they’ll do about this situation— whatever it is.

“Make, you mean.”

Erik’s crouched down by a patch of bushes, his hands hovering over pansies he’s delicately bringing up out of dark soil. Charles wonders how much time he’s taken since Cuba to enjoy work with— well, now it must be of— his hands.

“Right, of course.”

Charles turns, hands on his hips. He closes his eyes to focus for a few minutes, and after he’s opened them, a smart looking little cottage is standing about half a mile away from them, just on the outskirts of Erik’s park. He’s thinking (and thus, making) the specific china he’d like to see inside and the colors of his clothes (there’s something to dressing oneself, not just dreaming up the outfits) when Erik comes to stand next to him.

“Not much metal,” he observes.

“There’s none in your park but the nails in the benches,” Charles says. Erik just nods. 

Is this— does he want— different, does he want different, not just metal? None of their abilities here are mutations.

Erik presses a hand against the bark of a tree, smooths it down against the trunk. Charles remembers that he only made one bedroom in the house, and hastens to make a second. On the other side of the house. So maybe it’s not really a cottage. Whatever it is. His face is flushing.

“Something on your mind?” Erik teases.

Charles chooses not to respond. 

 

 

\---

 

 

He’s a little surprised when Erik follows him toward and into the house, but supposes it must make sense – the air around Charles is suffused with nervous tension and discomfort rooted in years of self-loathed repression. He knows it’s Erik. Or, well, would like to convince himself that it’s just Erik. Charles fears a little bit of this is himself bleeding out, fears he’s not quite himself and is just Erik’s idea of him. And yet, to be a conscious creation should be something else than the other options entirely.

Charles walks through the small kitchen and to the hall on the left, pushing open the middle door on the left side of the hallway with his flat palm. He can’t hear Erik’s footsteps behind him anymore. Charles kicks the door shut with his heel, rests the palms of his hands on the bed and closes his eyes, leaning forward.

 _Slow breaths,_ he tells himself, wonders if Erik can hear it.

 

 

\---

 

 

The room that Charles imagined for Erik has different furniture, curtains, sheets— different everything, really— but the way in which they’re arranged and designed make them an eerie reflection of Erik’s room at the Xavier mansion. Erik can’t decide whether it would be more appropriate to be touched or annoyed. He likes it, that much is true.

There’s nothing Erik needs to do to the room to proof it in case of a threat— and really, it’s not as if there’s anyone here except them— and so he lets his gaze be distracted by the sun setting out the window, its fading rays coloring the endless miles of grass around the house. 

 

 

\---

 

 

There’s a sun, of course there’s a sun, and the earth’s natural revolutions, why the wouldn’t there be— Erik accounts for everything subconsciously; Charles knows there is little of this world that is his.

He’s focused himself as much as can be done at this point and is sitting on the edge of the bed, head turned to watch the sky turn dark. Charles could probably make the sun jump back to high noon if he wanted. He doesn’t; oddly, it seems as if it would be some sort of insult to Erik.

Should he sleep? Sleeping while sleeping is a little absurd. But Charles’s body, and whatever could be his mind, does feel tired. Perhaps he should be saying ‘whatever should be his body’ as well, because nothing makes sense, and it’s not that things normally make sense, but Charles usually at least has some sort of grasp of what’s going on; it’s always been easy to slip into minds and know. He can’t slip into Erik’s mind because he’s already in his mind, and he can’t—

he can’t find it, Charles realizes with a start. He can’t pinpoint Erik’s mind out of the others because it’s all around him, and—

Charles turns and sits on the bed, letting himself fall back slowly until he’s lying down, eyes wide, breathing measured.

He can’t pinpoint Erik’s mind because he’s in it. All of the tendrils of his own awareness are not met with the yawning chasm of nothing he’d normally encounter. They’re inspected, marked, _caressed_ … and Charles would like nothing more than to drown in it.

 

 

\---

 

 

 _If I am in my own mind,_ Erik thinks, _I should be able to wake up._

And yet, each time he (it feels like hours—is there time here?) holds himself completely still and focuses on erasing everything around him, he discovers a small warmth lapping at the base of his skull. Each time, he recognizes it with shock, and this (dream? illusion?) world comes rushing back.

It takes seven attempts for him to realize that it’s Charles.

Erik tells himself there is nothing to trust, but his chest still tightens at the first touch.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

 _I have been lying here for hours_ , Charles thinks. So he sits up, relishing the feel of the muscles in his core pulling him forward and upward, those in his thighs bracing against the bed. He sucks in a breath and repeats the thought— _the muscles in his thighs—_ before leaning down to smooth his palms down his legs to his knees, just to feel.

The thing about losing his legs is that it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet, some mornings the panic has him almost clawing at the sheets, and perhaps it would in a few weeks, but now, after this, the ache and fear will return full force again, he supposes.

Charles flexes his right foot.

Acceptance can wait.

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles doesn’t sleep, and he makes tea in the kitchen the next morning because what else is there to do. It’s frustrating to be stuck here and it’s even more frustrating to keep losing his grasp on the situation. One moment, he’ll be trying to think back on what he would do to get someone out of their own mind, and the next, his mind is totally blank, and he won’t remember what he was trying to do until hours later.

Erik walks in just as the kettle begins to whistle and nearly steps on Charles’s foot when he goes up to the fridge. Their arms brush, and Erik starts slightly. He jerks his head left and looks at Charles, who’s stayed perfectly still and quiet, and says— (the kettle’s still whistling)— “Good morning.” 

Erik’s hair isn’t as tidy as usual and he looks like he didn’t sleep either, so Charles gives him a tight smile in return. “Good morning, Erik." 

At the curl of his accent around Erik’s name, Charles watches Erik’s mouth twitch for a second. Some phantom thing presses against the back and sides of his neck, and Charles thinks, _oh_ , and presses a hand to his neck as Erik looks him over, studying, and then walks away. 

Erik took the whole half-gallon of milk back to his room with a glass and five pieces of toast that came out of nowhere— which, really, could have literally happened— so Charles just sighs and thinks up some more bread. 

 

 

\---

 

 

They don’t do much that day—Charles doesn’t see Erik and only hears doors opening and closing, footsteps treading the same path and the toilet flushing; Charles wonders why even the needs of the body are here, blames it on Erik’s painstaking attention to detail and deals with it. Charles spends the time in his room, noticing that the books he had thought up to include had every page, even had the notes he’d scribbled into their margins.

 

 

\---

 

 

He falls asleep— passes out, rather— and finds himself in a dream, in his childhood bed, in his childhood pajamas that are, just like then, too big. Charles rolls over and sees the pictures of Einstein and Darwin, their eyes shifting back and forth in the dim light— shifting, yes, of their own accord, the circles bright and sinister. He’s about to ask them to stop it when his mother’s footsteps begin to sound. She’s starting at the base of the staircase and Charles knows that she’s coming here so he turns over, mussing up his hair and settling in to feign sleep. His breathing is almost perfectly slowed when the door opens and the stench of alcohol wafts over. Charles flinches.

“Charles Francis,” his mother says, her voice far away, duplicated, layered over itself, echoing, warped, switching through distortions. “Charles.”

He knows this, though, he’s done this so many times— just pull himself in and breathe, lie perfectly still.

She moves closer, her mind a fuzzy haze, and he’s ready for her to shake him like she always does, to slap him if she’s in the mood— not that she was ever a particularly violent drunk, she just wanted to be acknowledged, but it’s not like whether he responded or not ever improved the outcome of these nights.

When she touches him, it’s not her hand. “ _Charles_.” And that’s Kurt’s voice, oh shit, oh fuck—

Charles jerks, his eyes flying open as hands grasp his shoulders to pull him to the right and then push him down so he’s trapped, stuck staring up at—

 _—_ at Erik, who’s looking just as confused as Charles is, his shoulders shaking and eyes white and round and bright as those in the pictures, ethereal and spooky and _wrong_ in this half-light, and he opens his mouth to speak and it’s Sharon’s voice again, Sharon saying, “Charles, darling, why won’t you wake up?”

Charles opens his mouth to speak but his jaw falls slack, then clicks against itself when Erik begins to shake him. “Charles”—the voice is now some sick hybrid of Sharon and Kurt, growing louder and howling as if stuck in a storm— “Charles _Francis Xavier_ , you will get up right now and march yourself down—“

“Mom,” Charles manages, his voice as small and shaky as it was at eight, “Mother—” 

“CHARLES.” Even when Erik closes his mouth, the sound still comes out, a sick loop of Charles’ name over and over— and Charles begins to scream as the room rattles and Erik shakes him and his head strikes against the headboard once, twice, three times—

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles blinks his eyes open and jerks back— and he can smell it, yes, that’s definitely blood and it’s on the back of his head and his eyes fucking _hurt_ and his head _hurts_ and this would make sense if he were in a crowded room with his shields down, but he’s not. Erik’s hands aren’t on his shoulders anymore but they’re hovering, and Erik is looking at him— how to describe it— Erik looks confused and slightly terrified but mostly in wonder (always that stupid look of wonder)—

And of course they just stare at each other for a few seconds, in his _childhood home_ , not The House At Westchester, but straight out of his memories— but they’re in Erik’s head, aren’t they? How are they here when—

More blood— where—

and it’s trickling down his face, lips, open mouth, chin, oh fuck, nosebleed, that’s never—

 

 

\---

 

 

“… that’s never good,” Charles hears himself finish in a mumble. Once it’s registered, he sits up so quickly that he’s dizzy, and grips the edge of the bed for stability. It’s dark, and he’s only got the sound of his rapid breathing for company, but he’s back in the house— not-cottage— and shit, his head, his face, was there—

Charles’s hands fly to his face, the back of his head. There’s no blood.

He’s not bleeding. It was a dream.

Charles slowly releases a breath and his hands fall with it. He grips his knees. He can feel that, so this is still whatever mental wasteland they’re stuck in. Stuck in alone, really, it’s not as if they could actually talk to each other productively, or that Charles really knows if he wants to anymore.

And then Erik stumbles in, nearly breaking down the door. He’s as short of breath as Charles was a few moments ago and his hair is a mess. Charles would call the expression on his face anger if there wasn’t an edge of cold fear— something Charles has seen in him rarely— threatening to take over.

Charles waits. Erik looks him over, as if he’s cataloguing something, and then says, almost dumbly, “I was never there.”

 _My house,_ Charles thinks _._ “My childhood home?” he asks quietly.

“I was _._ ” Erik starts, pauses, glances at the floor. “Your mother.” 

 _You hurt me_ , Charles thinks suddenly, bitterly— and he looks away, takes his own moment to compose his response. He takes what stock he can: he’s stuck here, with Erik, who probably isn’t Erik— in many senses— if he wants to be realistic about how life has played itself out, and he’s dreaming while locked in what is something, whatever it is most near to a dream. 

“Which mind are we stuck in?” Erik asks. 

“I don’t know, Erik.” Charles says, dismissive. “Go back to sleep.”

 

 

\--- 

 

 

Erik had left when he’d told him to— if that really had been Erik and not some dreamt up wish— and Charles had gotten up and began pacing around his little room, thinking about what to do, thinking about how much imagination it would take to bring a storm, a flood, destroy all of this— what happened if they died here? Could they die?

Distantly, Charles thinks of his house. No, now it was a school, wasn’t it? Or, it would be. It would be if he were there, and maybe he was there right now, maybe _he_ was a different Charles. He could slightly remember talking to Erik on the beach in Cuba— not when they _really_ _were_ at Cuba, of course— right?— and— and coffee— he could remember knowing how they had gotten here, to wherever this world was, but now— now his thoughts are a thick haze.

His pacing slows to a stop. Charles shivers and brings his arms around himself, fingers digging into feeling skin. _How did I get here?_

\---

 

 

The sun hasn’t risen.

Erik would have normally let his mind wander to its corner where it kept the recordings of his mother reading scripture— he was certain there was something appropriate for endless night someplace in the Tanakh.

He’d left, shaken, when Charles had told him to, and walked out of the house, wandering until hopefully he’d lose sight of grass (and gain sight of what?) but whatever world the two of them had thought up had set itself on some sort of sick loop. The further he walked, the closer he came back.

 _That’s a terrible attempt at poetics_ , Erik hears Charles say, but it’s just a memory.

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles hasn’t left his room. Or, at least, Erik knows he is in there now. Erik goes to him again— _could never stop thinking about him; now I’m stuck with him_ —and is silent as he shuts the door and comes to stand behind Charles. Charles is sitting in a ridiculously plush armchair, some book open on his lap. He’s staring out the window. The sky is the same inky violet it’s been for hours.

Erik holds himself for a moment.

Charles is as alive as ever in front of him. His chest rises and falls with even breaths. Erik can hear it. He can feel the rhythm of Charles’s heart in his chest—it reverberates through the chair and through the floor, up through Erik’s legs and climbing upward still. Erik closes his eyes and reaches out a hand, thinking that if this is what it’s like before touch, what will sensation be like when—

“My mind must have worked itself into whatever this is, that’s the only explanation I can come up with,” Charles says abruptly, as if he’d known Erik had wanted to touch his shoulder (he probably did) and Erik’s hand falls back to his side. He nods.

He feels Charles swallow. The room shudders almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve been thinking,” Charles continues, “and every time I come against the questions of what am I, where are we, why me, why you, I then go to asking what knowing that information would give me.” He looks up, taking Erik’s gaze and holding it for his own. “What would it give you?”

“Better information with which to craft an escape,” Erik says, because what could he say? 

Charles doesn’t release his hold. “Of course.”

 

 

\---

 

 

The next morning (light has just begun trickling in through his window; Erik can say that it’s morning), Erik’s sitting on the edge of his room’s bed when his door suddenly opens and Charles walks— well, strides is more like it— in. He’s frowning, and looks down at Erik for a moment, calculating. Erik stares back.

“My name is Charles Francis Xavier,” Charles suddenly says, voice strong but hoarse at the edges, as if he’s been talking for hours. “I’m thirty-one. I hold a Ph.D. in genetics. From Oxford. I have an adopted younger sister, Raven. My father died when I was seven. My mother is an alcoholic.” His mouth twists. “Well, was.”

Erik blinks.

Charles sits next to him and holds their eye contact. The skin around his eyes is red; the shadow from the weak light casting the blue of his irises in a strange glow. “I have what may be considered a superhuman ability, a mutation. I can listen in to and manipulate the thoughts, motivations, and bodily control of minds. I can project my own thoughts. This ability has led me to be called a mutant. My adopted sister can change her physical appearance, so this also classifies her as a mutant.”

Erik realizes that Charles may be reciting. He listens silently, but does not retain much of the information— Erik is the only other sentient being wherever they are, and Charles seems in need of being heard. Charles continues to speak, rattling off names of boys in boarding school and dates of mundane and not mundane days, tests he’d aced and the specific essays on them, Raven’s many boyfriends, the types of cars he’d driven and what he knew of their machinery, bacterial strains— whatever was coming to his mind about his life, it seemed, he was describing in as much detail as possible.

Charles’s hands are shaking where they’re resting on his knees, and he coughs, but keeps going, seemingly on a chronological kick now. “Last year, I was paralyzed from the waist down by a stray bullet—”

“Stop,” Erik says, partly because the guilt is still fresh and partly because he’s never seen Charles like this. Charles stares at him, arms still shaking, then says, “My name is Charles Xavier,” voice wavering, and Erik grabs his shoulders.

“Stop it,” he grinds out, and Charles glares at him, and the room shakes as it did hours earlier, though nothing falls off dressers or beds, just leans back and forth, shakes shakes shakes—

—shakes as Charles’s voice suddenly booms around them _MY NAME IS CHARLES XAVIER_ but his mouth isn’t moving, and he’s glaring with an almost petulant look on his face, Erik desiring to call him a child—

but Erik waits it out. He waits out the room to right itself, Charles’s thoughts to stop, and they finally do. But Charles doesn’t stop looking at him, eyes red-rimmed, face flushed, hands still shaking, legs unnervingly still.

It’s quiet.

 _Hello, Charles Xavier, my name is Erik Lehnsherr_ , Erik thinks of saying, but he doubts sarcasm would improve the mood. Regardless, he’s too used to being the caged animal; he hates seeing Charles— or whatever version of Charles this is— shaken.

So he says, “You are Charles Xavier,” doesn’t add _you said we can do whatever we like here/was that you/is that still you/every minute are you the same thing or are you changing/maybe we just have to choose to operate as if things will stay as they are,_ “if you want to be Charles Xavier, you’re Charles Xavier.”

Charles frowns, caught off guard. After a moment he says, slowly, “It’s not a question of who I want to be—”

“Do you think you’re Charles Xavier?” Erik asks, cutting him off. 

For a minute, Charles looks horribly lost, so Erik modifies his question. “Whoever… whatever… you are, that’s Charles Xavier?”

“There are so many—” Charles says in a rush; blinks, suddenly stops. He looks away from Erik for the first time since walking into the room. “Yes.”

 _You are who you want to be_ , Erik wants to say, but shies away from it, knows it’s not appropriate, knows that he has his answers and that they’re the things he holds onto to make sense of the world, because if he doesn’t, what the hell is going on anyway. Regardless, he suddenly thinks, he’s Erik Lehnsherr and those are the things that Erik Lehnsherr says. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Charles had started speaking again, and actually to him this time. 

“I never thought I and my identity could seem so split,” Charles murmurs.

A weight settles on Erik’s shoulders.

But then Charles lifts his chin, turns and looks at him— really looks at him— and his expression goes oddly soft around the edges, like he’s amused and repulsed all at once. “Erik,” he says quietly, immeasurably fond. An unspoken _it’s you_ floats between them, Erik unsure if Charles projected it or— fuck, he doesn’t know how this world works, and Charles is _looking_ at him like—

Charles looks down, maneuvers his arm out of Erik’s tight grasp to press a palm against Erik’s chest. Erik’s heart beats and Charles’ heart beats out its pulse through his hand and Erik’s chest _it’s you it’s you I’m me I’m me._  

“Charles,” he says.

“Oh, my friend.” Charles’ eyes are misted over; his throat tightening (Erik watches the line of it as Charles swallows), and his fingers twitching against Erik’s chest. And Erik thinks Charles looks delirious, thinks Charles is delirious; thinks that he doesn’t know what to think. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” 

_—I wanted you to come back why did you leave me I wanted I wanted a great deal of things—_

_Charles_ , Erik thinks so he doesn’t say it out loud, has been saying it out loud too much. He places his hand over the one Charles has pressed against his chest, wraps his fingers around it and brings it down into his other palm, rests their hands against his knees.

“I’m right here,” Erik says, “I’m here.”

Charles presses his eyes shut at that; tears leak out their edges. He opens them and then blinks, his previous expression of open affection shifting to confusion as his shoulders slump. _Too much_ , Erik hears, and then Charles’s eyes close and he crumples, unconscious.

Erik grabs him just before he falls off the bed. 

His own hands are shaking, now. 

Erik closes his eyes.

 

 

\---

 

 

He opens them, and he’s in a field.

No, he’s in grass, but not in a field. He’s at the top of a hill, underneath a few tall trees. He turns around and sees the Westchester house in the distance, probably a ten-minute walk away, so he’s inside the grounds. East of him is more grass below the hill with children playing and adults lunching at folded out tables and chairs.

“You can go join them, if you want.”

Erik turns in the direction of the voice to see a young boy— Charles? He’s wearing a suit that must be hot in this sun. His small fingers play with the buttons on his waistcoat as he watches Erik, eyes deep and impossibly— _yes, impossibly_ , _I’ve never understood_ —blue. Charles frowns as he looks Erik up and down, then cocks his head to the side.

“Why do you have a cap? No one wears wool caps these days. Certainly not that type, and certainly not in this type of weather.” And then, Erik looks down at himself.

He’s wearing the clothes he wore on the day Schmidt—Shaw—killed his mother. Again.

Erik goes very still. 

Charles comes closer, and Erik can see that they’re very close in height.

“Are you doing this?” Erik asks.

Charles frowns. “Doing what?” 

Charles reaches out for him and the colors of the day bleed down and out like loose watercolor, into the grass and down.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

“Why are you going to Oxford?”

Raven.

Raven, and she’s so young, what are those boots, probably not her school uniform—

Erik stands from where he’s squatting behind a couch, and promptly ducks back down again when he sees how close Charles and Raven are to him. The couch is at enough of an angle to the two and close enough to a side table for him to hide behind it and watch the two of them undetected, Erik thinks, and quickly moves to the right to perfect his position.

“The mere fact that you are asking me that question is—” Charles begins, voice tight with annoyance.  He pauses, brings his hands up to her shoulders. He sighs. “This isn’t because I want to leave _you_ , Raven.” 

“I hate it here just as much as you do,” Raven says in a whining rush, “I should be able to go if I want. I’m not even a part of this family. They’re—Kurt is noticing what you did to your mom, how she’s giving me funny looks, and—”

Erik can’t see as well as he’d like to in the dim light, but he can tell how Charles’s back straightens and he can feel a sudden, overwhelming sense of shame as it washes over the room.

Raven bites her lower lip, but it’s not in apology.

Time ticks by (on the grandfather clock in the north-east corner; this is one of the many studies in the mansion; Erik had found Hank and Raven in here sharing a soda once; Charles had brushed his knuckles across the back of Erik’s wrist when he found him sleeping here; Charles had found Raven in here crying when he was fifteen; Charles had kissed Jenny here; Charles hadn’t taken Bobby here, he’d kissed Bobby inside what used to be the stables; Charles had often—).

“You can come with me,” Charles finally says, face blank and irrevocably closed. His voice is rough. “You’ll graduate in the spring, and you’ll take a year for travel, live with your brother in England, because you’re rich and you can.” A smile tugs at Raven’s lips and she reaches for him, but Charles just squeezes her shoulder with an answering smile that’s more like a grimace, and his hands drop to hide in his pockets.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

For a moment, Erik blinks his eyes open into white, then silver— _metal—_ and pain, so much pain, hospitals, sterility, Charles lying on a bed, his back on fire, and then it’s him on the bed and doctors hovering, so many voices it feels like his head’s going to explode—

—and in front of his eyes a hazy image: his own face, sunlight glinting off the helmet, missiles exploding in the distance.

Again, colors fuzz at the edges and begin to bleed, but Erik holds on, focusing on the idea that they could stay as they were, or change into something else. They hover, shake, and merge into a swirl of black that erupts—

—into the sea.

He’s drowning, there’s so much water, and Shaw, Shaw’s getting away—it’s so dark and cold and he can’t pull himself up; the surface is so far away.

But he’s not drowning, Erik suddenly realizes. He’s just sinking. He can breathe. Not that he needs to; everything’s working fine.

Erik lets himself fall slowly as he looks around. Bits of light peek through the water, shining down through the ripples of movement. He can hear the hum of the submarine’s engine, the hums of all the other engines, and a heartbeat—his own?

He shrugs off his jacket and lets his hands rise above his head so he can fall better. There’s something far off to his left, not the submarine, something strange—

and then Erik’s moving closer to it, his limbs deciding that it’s time to swim. He’s moving, but there’s so little substance to this water, and everything is quiet but for the vibrations of whirrs and pulses. _One, two, three_ , he can’t help but think, the numbers counted out for him.

The silhouette is gaining some definition as he comes closer and it continues to fall. He can see legs and arms, a stretch of fabric that must be a scarf straining upwards, and a mess of shadow that must be hair. He knows before he reaches him that it must be Charles, and of course it is. _Dead weight_ , Erik thinks with a shiver, but thankfully Charles’s chest is rising and falling and Erik can feel his heartbeat almost as well as he feels his own.

Charles is a light, living weight when Erik puts his arms underneath him, blood warm and thrumming. Erik’s fingertips and palms tingle where he touches him. 

They’ve stopped falling.

Erik closes his eyes and breathes in. The water dances through his hair and across his face; the humming slowly builds to a crescendo and breaks through and over him.

He kicks up and the surface grows closer. 

 

 

\---

 

 

When they break through it, there’s no splash, but the world _bends,_ curving upwards; fisheye. Erik looks up at what must be the sun as the sky warps—

 _—_ and he can hear things, but only slightly, and muffled. They’re not new sounds; he recognizes them from that first night: agent MacTaggert’s shouting, the whine of the searchlights, Charles’s heavy breathing, “ _kleine Erik Lehnsherr”—_

 _—_ and the world bends down, bends until, with a strange groan, their surroundings shift and they’re suddenly dripping wet and in one of the larger ponds at Westchester, the mansion standing tall and austere in the distance.

Charles coughs against Erik’s chest and the grounds shimmer.

Erik holds himself as still as possible, and Charles coughs again. The water around them changes to grass changes to water changes to snow changes to water. Another cough makes Charles curl up and into Erik’s chest, his hands coming up and fingers twisting holds into Erik’s turtleneck. He presses his forehead to Erik’s sternum and breathes in.

Erik wants to think that he can feel Charles’s mind wrapping around them (like it did in Russia, in Cuba, any time they were in danger) but it feels rather as if it’s expanding to touch everything around them and Erik only feels its touch by being in the way.

When Charles’ breaths are even and not too labored, Erik kicks over to the edge and, as the ground rises, steps out. He sets Charles down and sits beside him. Charles’s hands are still tangled in his shirt. Erik doesn’t mind. He looks at Charles, notices how his eyes are as distant as before, but not in that crazed way. He looks more resigned, now. Erik wants to push the hair off his forehead. He lets his hands stay heavy on his knees instead.

“I said, Westchester or that house?” Charles is looking at him. Erik can’t remember him speaking. “Which one?”

Erik looks away and behind them where the mansion stands, its sight flickering in and out against the sky as it shifts between itself and the house they’d thought up for themselves here.

“I’m not ready for that yet,” Erik says quietly. 

Charles switches his gaze between Erik and the changing houses a few, slow times in silence, then nods. “Alright,” he says, taking his hands away and into his lap, “alright.”

 

 

\---

 

 

They had walked back to the cottage in silence, Erik noticing along the way that Charles seemed less closed off from him and now more… oddly resolved about something. Charles had walked to get the walk over with and he had opened the door to get that over with, too— Erik couldn’t tell where he was going (though it was not as if he ever really knew where Charles had planned to go or what he’d really planned to do at any given moment before) and Charles’s accompanying silence had unnerved him.

Charles had ended up walking into the kitchen. Now, Erik stands in the hall and watches, from the open door as Charles removes his coat and scarf and shakes them out a bit, as if they were still damp, and drapes them over the back of a chair. Charles catches his eyes briefly— meaningfully?— and then turns to fill the teakettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. Erik is still.

He can’t feel Charles, not that he could much before, but now it’s like nothing. The silence of the air around him is oppressive, makes him want to curl into himself or lash out. Erik thinks that were they not these ‘whatever-they-are’s of themselves, Charles would be smothered by Erik’s trickling discomfort just as much as Erik is.

 _doorway,_ he hears— it’s Charles’s thought, but it’s probably not intended for him to hear— then, _fitting,_ and, a few seconds later, _always in doorways_.

Erik realizes that he’s been standing with his eyes closed when the kettle starts whistling. He opens them and sees Charles prepare two cups of tea, bringing them to the small table tucked into a side of the kitchen. Charles doesn’t look at Erik, but when he sits, he pushes one of the mugs in front of the seat across from his. Erik stays standing for a moment and then joins him at the table. Charles cups his mug in both hands, holding it close to his chest. 

“Do you think we ought to talk?” Charles says quietly, barely an inflection in his tone. His lashes nearly touch his cheeks. He’s not looking at Erik, but he’s not avoiding his gaze either. 

“What do you think we need to discuss?” Erik says quickly, and oh, too quickly; that wasn’t what he meant.

Charles looks at him, his gaze is a bit heavy, and Erik suddenly hopes, his stomach sinking, that he hasn’t failed what might have been another test. He doesn’t care about passing; he just wants the tests to stop (what would replace them; well, that’s the question).

But Charles smiles, and though it could pass as a grimace in another light, Erik wonders if the slight amusement he thinks he sees means he hasn’t totally failed. “Oh, everything,” Charles murmurs, and takes a sip of his tea. 

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles is standing in the living room of the small house, in front of the window that faces the sunset. He’s opened the window and lets the slight breeze roll into the room and stir his clothing, muss the hair on the sides of his face. He closes his eyes to feel the warmth (artificial breeze? artificial warmth? Whatever it is, it’s _warmth_ and _breeze_ ) on his skin. Charles breathes in and out.

Erik is in the doorway again.

Charles’s telepathy feels like water, now. It fills the rooms and leaves everything virtually untouched, but moves around and through and all is a part of it just as it is a part of every thing.

“You know that you can come in, Erik,” Charles says, because he’s tired of actively trying to control anything but himself.

And then Erik is behind him, and Erik’s hands are on his hips, his sides, his shoulders, and down to his sides again. Charles can hear his breathing, soft and measured; can feel his breath on his neck. Erik noses the back of his ear and his stills his restless hands, palms pressing and fingers curling in.

Erik (because he can’t quite say _Erik’s mind_ at this point) is radiating a suppressed anxiety that nearly snaps Charles’s body into taut sympathy.

 _I don’t know, I don’t understand,_ Erik’s hands, Erik’s body, say.

Charles matches their breathing, hears their strong heartbeats. His own heart beats quietly and steadily while Erik’s is much too loud. It doesn’t know what to say, but Charles’s own taps out a soothing rhythm of _I know I know everything will be fine._

He doesn’t realize he’s said some variation of the last bit out loud until Erik breathes out “define ‘fine’” and sighs. Erik presses his cheek to Charles’s temple.

Charles is still for a few moments, holds them there. Then, he leans backward until his back is against Erik’s chest, and brings his hands up to cover Erik’s where they’re gripping Charles around the waist. Erik’s fingers tighten their hold automatically. Charles clicks his tongue and runs his thumbs down the sides of Erik’s hands until he loosens his grip.

 _I’m sick of this,_ Charles thinks suddenly. The clarity of the thought is striking. He sighs and lays his head back, back until it’s held up by Erik’s shoulder. _Talk to me_ , Charles thinks, and though he keeps it to himself, Erik bends down to brush his lips across his neck, and Charles can’t comfortably call that just an impulse. Erik, Charles considers, is speaking to him in the only way he knows.

 _Talk to me_ , he thinks again, lets the thought go out. Erik kisses the junction of his neck and shoulder, the touch barely there, and next takes an earlobe between his teeth. Charles hisses, unbidden; moves further back to press them flush together. Erik murmurs something. Charles opens an eye.

_What?_

A contemplative silence answers him. Charles can just about see it: Erik’s thoughts a smooth mass that he turns around, unsure how to display them. Charles frowns, mouth still open.

 _—real,_ he catches, _what is— ____ co—uld ____ be real—_

Erik steps back, his hands hovering until they rest against Charles’s stomach, pulling back again until Charles moves with them, frees his own arms. Erik rests his head against Charles’s, his nose in his hair.

The sunset’s light is just now dying. Charles gently curls his fingers in and around the bend of Erik’s elbows, and holds himself and Erik still. 

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles had restructured the house into two stories with a front porch and balcony while Erik went to take a (linearly circular, as always) walk. He added a modified version of his library from Westchester, though the books they contained were, like those in his room here, either partially or fully blank, and those that have each page filled are quite dog-eared and tea-stained.

 _This world is a reflection_ , he thinks suddenly. Whatever proofs are before him are demonstration; understood instantly and only possible by what is already known. Whatever place he and Erik are in _—_ and _place is the space that can be occupied by a thing_ , Charles thinks wryly. For all of his beloved ancients’ genius, they often gave answers that only made sense looking backward.

Charles is sitting in one of the small wooden chairs he thought up for the balcony’s small wooden table. He’s careful to cover his cup of tea with a hand when a particularly strong breeze rushes through. Charles peers over the railing, seeing Erik as a dark spot against the horizon line. The mid-morning sun illuminates their field and makes the pond sparkle (someone’s mind had apparently wanted it to stay, so there it was). Charles’s fresh thought about the structure of this world vanishes from his awareness and memory, bleached out of his musings by the brightness of the day.

All of the books in the library are old and either from his childhood at Westchester or his and Raven’s flat by Oxford. There are a few of his journals and one of Raven’s diaries. It’s disturbing, Charles realizes, that he hasn’t thought of his sister in God knows how long and probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t seen the diary. It’s old leather in a revolting pink (there’s something skirting at the edges of Charles’s memory about the particular model being ‘all the rage’ or something of the sort) and the pages are, except for the first few, empty.

He’d brought the diary along with his journals and old school notes to the balcony with his tea. As he looks through them, Charles thinks that he should be feeling something, something stronger, and telltale, but just when he begins to make out a sentence, the words blur on the page before him and his head feels fuzzy and numb. It is only when he notices Erik walking down a hill and toward the house that the world snaps back into clarity. 

Charles blinks a few times against the severity of the light, Erik’s silhouette against the sun’s rays fuzzy like the words on their pages. The simile has him looking down at the diary he’s holding in his lap and murmur “Raven.” _Mystique_ , his thoughts suggest, and he frowns at the name; it’s harsh and foreign. His idea of his sister is strangely distant, itself. 

And then _everything_ begins to feel distant, and light— bright— too— too much— 

Charles’s head dips forward, heavy, heavy, and he pulls it back, the heat of the sun coercing his sudden sluggishness. He sighs, the sound long and drawn out, a rattle in the back of his throat. Charles leans his head back and lets his eyes slide shut, just a moment to have the cool metal—it is metal, now—of the chair against his neck…

 

 

\---

 

 

Erik finds him like that, dozing, the tips of his fingers just barely hanging onto the journal. Erik sets two new cups of tea on the wrought iron table and waits, watching the set of the sun, until Charles stirs.

Charles’s eyes open slowly, whole body languid against the chair, the blue ( _impossibly blue_ , Erik thinks again) of his irises liquid against the stark black of his pupils. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he sees Erik, and Erik feels tension drip out from between his shoulder blades.

Charles looks down at where Erik’s hands are resting at the edge of his chair’s arms, and his wrist stirs. Erik hears the strains of something classical, far away, but instead of trying to find its source, he’s locked onto Charles. Charles, who is silent, but for Erik feeling the edges of his thoughts brush against his skin. Charles, who seems to have made a private decision when he places the leather journal on the table, smoothes its front neatly, and briefly squeezes Erik’s wrist before turning to the cup of tea in front of him.

He sips it and frowns. “Oh dear, it’s gone cold. And you went through the trouble to make it, Erik, thank you.”

Erik merely quirks an eyebrow as if to say _trouble?_ and stands to pour the tea over the side of the railing. Charles watches him as he does so. Erik hears the music again—single pulses of a horn. It and Charles’s gaze make the line of his shoulders prickle.

“Bruckner,” Charles says, almost contentedly. His posture is rigid.

The music stops.

When Erik turns back, Charles is standing and shuffling what papers and books he had on the table into a pile. He scoops them into his arms, glances at Erik briefly, and heads back into the house.

Erik tightens his fingers around the handle of the china until it snaps.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

There is this bitterness lacing their movements—Charles can feel it. He would muse more on it, too, if his thoughts weren’t sifting in his head like sand. And, perhaps, he would feel remorse. As it is, he feels very little that isn’t muted, and stays in his room because it is his safe zone—his safe zone that Erik almost never knocks before entering. Almost never because at the moment, Charles is just getting undressed to attempt sleeping (the idea of which never fails to jab him with its irony) and it surprises him when Erik walks in, looking breathless.

Charles pauses, holding onto the fronts of his shirt that he had intended to shrug off. Erik doesn’t meet his eyes—no, Erik is looking at his eyes, but not only—he’s looking at _all_ of him, somehow, and Charles feels his heart begin to thrum in the way it must have when Erik looked at him before. Before? Before what? _Before all of this_ , he thinks, and it’s right, but he can’t locate whatever ‘this’ is.

A memory process, he thinks to himself. The quickening rate of his heartbeat is panic, but his body is still—a contradiction that has his thoughts bouncing too rapidly off of one another to make sense.

His pulse knocks against his throat.

And then Erik is there, his large hands cupping Charles’s face as he leans down to kiss him.

Charles’s hands get trapped between their chests. Erik’s touch is gentle—despite all that his striding had been sharp, for all that his lips are chapped—but firm; easing Charles’s mouth open as his hands slide down Charles’s shoulders to wrap around his forearms and move them out of the way.

Charles dumbly clutches at Erik’s shoulders, eyes shut from surprise _—_ though it’s not quite surprise, and he never liked dumbly as an adjective because the way it rolled off his tongue started clinching the stereotype of clueless boy student from—

Erik pulls him closer, then closer still, fingers twisting in his shirt and then his hair, and, gods, Erik’s tongue licks into his mouth and Charles moans weakly, and his body begins to tremble.

“ _Erik_ ,” he manages somehow (most likely only due to the fact that Erik has left his mouth alone and is now attending to his neck). Charles takes Erik’s hips in his hands and pushes away as best he can. It is also not much of a surprise when Erik pauses, and then obediently straightens to move a few inches back (albeit reluctantly; Charles thinks about the heat of the day and how it doesn’t really compare to the intensity of the look that Erik’s giving him).

Charles can’t manage anything else.

“Charles,” Erik says for him.

And though Charles uncurls his fingers to lift and flatten a palm against Erik’s chest, Erik just dips his head down once more. Charles feels aborted in his own movement, whatever it was, and closes his eyes. Erik doesn’t kiss him, just stays low and close, their mouths open and barely apart, though they’re just breathing; Erik’s hands still on his shoulder and lower back even though Charles can feel their wish to grab and pull humming through.

Charles exhales.

At the sound of it, Erik breaks _—_ sighs and kisses him again, uncharacteristically sweet. The hard lines of his hands smooth out and press against Charles’s back softly now, stroking knuckles down Charles’s spine until his body feels weak and moldable against Erik’s, their kisses slow enough to make his toes curl into the carpet. 

Erik pulls apart from Charles with another sigh. He closes his mouth in a line, lips bruised, and drops his hands away. Charles marks their absence, all of a sudden feeling very cold and small. Erik looks like he wants to say something and—Charles notices—his eyes seem a little wet.

Charles runs his tongue against his bottom lip, waiting. Even now there is some gulf, he begins to think, sadly, and he would have tried to follow that train of thought if Erik’s eyes hadn’t suddenly gone distant.

“Erik?” he says quietly.

Erik’s eyes catch onto him for one brief, terrible (the word jumps to describe before Charles can even chose it) second before he stumbles backward and into the armchair, coughing roughly.

 _Erik_? This time Charles asks it with his mind, and Erik looks at him again. The room is oppressively silent.

Charles swallows, frozen where he’s standing. Erik is looking straight at him, straight in him, or through him, and it’s hideously uncomfortable—perhaps because Charles is never on the receiving end of that type of gaze. Erik grunts, shakes his head, and Charles hopes whatever spell there was must now be broken, but then Erik stills again. The room is so heavy that Charles can barely breathe. Erik’s eyelids flicker once, twice, and then his eyes roll back.

Charles has a moment to release a small, dry breath before his surroundings are bleached through with white.

It is dreadful, and it quivers beneath him, mutable.

And Charles thinks firmly, _No. Not this time_.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

When Erik opens his eyes, he’s in the armchair, and Charles is standing in front of him. His eyes are bright in the way they get when he’s laughing, but his mouth is closed. The ghost of a smile flickers around the corners of his mouth. He extends a hand toward him.

Erik is distantly aware of some sort of rush happening around them. There is no sound. 

Charles stands against a stark backdrop of white. Erik sits against the same white. The ground is white. Charles is pale in its brightness, his hair faded. His fingers uncurl, encouraging. 

When Erik fits his hand in Charles’s, the touch is electric. He sucks in a breath as he stands. His hand is sure in Charles’s grip, and his legs are steady. 

 _Hello_ , he hears. 

Charles is standing in front of him, smiling softly. Erik feels something, a pulse in the air, against his skin. Charles looks down and places his other hand on the top of their joined ones. The pulse turns soft and wraps itself around Erik, fluttering gently until it smooths itself into his bones.

 _What would you like to do?_ Charles asks. 

Erik can only breathe. 

 _We can do whatever we’d like. I think I said this before, and perhaps it didn’t seem so, but it is true. We may be in minds, but they are ours._  

Charles’s voice is silk that slips through Erik’s ears (though he knows it doesn’t, that’s not how this works) to swirl around his thoughts contentedly. _You,_ he thinks. At that, Charles smiles and squeezes his hand.

 _You,_ Erik thinks again, _you._ He dips his head, reverent, and shuts his eyes.

 

 

\---

 

 

It is strange, Charles thinks, that most communication is so subtle and unclear. Body language was an eloquent dance that he never quite mastered— he always knew motivation, and, thus, the manifestation of the subconscious could be too easily perceived— Charles practiced and perfected sending the correct signals at all times, and it was too easy; the game destroyed. 

Erik, he remembers—and oh, just the faculty of a clear memory here is sweet—was nearly as calculated as he in his movements, but had trained himself to naturally fall into whatever he needed. For Charles, every moment was crucial. Erik needed only to think of his purpose and his body naturally filled out with movement.

Erik walking around their small kitchen is what sparks his memory. The edges of things are blurred, but the strong line of Erik’s body is in sharp definition. In his recapturing of their world, Charles had grabbed too harshly, and the objects almost seem to shy away from them as if injured.

He does not lament the mystery of silent communication now.

Charles sits and watches Erik put dishes away—dishes that weren’t quite there before—and when Erik looks at him over his shoulder, Charles thinks he should have done away with words some time ago.

 

 

\---

 

 

Charles suggests a walk later in the evening. Erik shrugs on the leather jacket Charles recognizes and gives a sharp nod, walking forward to hold the door open for Charles while Charles is fixing a button on his cardigan. When they leave the house together, the fields are still there, but are different from how they were before.

Charles can barely hear the rustling of the grass beneath their feet. Sound is muted, and turns the light breeze currently mussing his hair into a sigh.

And then, a low sound, far away.

Erik looks at him and Charles raises his eyebrows in response. He keeps walking, Erik ever at his side.

After what feels like an hour, they reach gravel and train tracks. Charles can feel the metal’s hum and Erik goes to it as if entranced, bending to one knee and running his fingers along the rails. When Charles presses his knuckles to Erik’s shoulder, he can feel it, too, the metal’s song to Erik not unlike the sultry, deep water of minds that calls to Charles. He can also feel how the hum sharpens itself into specific definitions, almost a Morse code of identification for Erik to know genus, species, and there, quieter, something Charles thinks may be unique to this particular piece of metal alone.

Erik takes Charles’s hand in his and stands, stepping onto the train tracks. The sunset bleeds color into the burnished steel, its light making the rails shimmer copper and spread the glow into the ground next to them, into Charles’s shoes and up through his clothes, their weight suddenly more solid than before. He lets go of Erik’s hand and reaches up to press the starched cotton of his collar against his neck, just to feel it against his skin.

His shoulder brushes against Erik’s when he trips against a thick wooden slat and Erik grips his hand and waist, strong, to pull him up. Charles dusts himself off and continues walking. He could feel each callus on Erik’s palm. With clearer thoughts and sensations, he’d like to say they’re becoming more real, but he couldn’t say what he would mean by that. 

 _Look,_ Erik says, because thoughts are their speech now. Charles follows his gaze to see a dot on the horizon that seems as if it could be on the tracks or next to it. _It’s not metal._

What’s not metal soon looks to be rock, and what soon looks to be rock is cliffs rising steadily upward into fog. Charles stops to narrow his eyes, straining his neck back to catch sight of their top. He can barely see its outline against the sun, which, bright as ever, has decided to return to rising instead of setting. Not that he pays much attention beyond that—he didn’t grab the sun to force it back into place, earlier.

The grass had cut off suddenly into fine, pale sand, but the tracks continued. It doesn’t seem very stable for a train, but dreams were never that stable of a place to begin with, Charles thinks suddenly. And then stills, because: dreams?

He looks at Erik, his dark hair and dark line of his mouth and dark clothing striking and unapologetic against the wide ocean behind him.

 _Let’s go_ , Charles says, and Erik bares his teeth in a smile.


	3. part 2 (unfinished)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik must have figured it out, then—that their bodies feel solid and immutable. Charles wouldn’t even think of changing himself now.
> 
> (unfinished half of part 2 that had not been posted until now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there. this work has been abandoned for two years now, and I don't intend to work on it further. however, I remembered today that there was quite a bit of part 2 written in 2013 that I'd never posted, so I'm uploading it now. it hasn't been edited much, and I haven't read over it again. I'm posting it because I received such kind and generous feedback when I began uploading this story back in 2012 - so, in the case someone may enjoy it, here is a small offering. thank you.

_part 2_

 

 

 

 

 

Charles and Erik follow the train tracks until they end, just before a single ridge of trees. The cliffs also end: here they are a long, imposing mass to their right. Charles kneels to study the end of the tracks. Erik is looking at the trees—though there’s few of them, he can’t see what’s behind them. He can feel it, though. The call of metal pulls at him, ringing up through his limbs and ending in a heavy buzz, weighing his fingertips down

 _There’s a city._ Erik says.

“Hm?” Charles is still distracted by the tracks, and it takes him a minute to process what Erik has just said. When he does, he looks up. _Are there people?_ he thinks, not intending to share the thought, but it’s a little too loud to be kept to himself. Erik wouldn’t want there to be, Charles knows, and he isn’t sure if he would, either.

Erik shakes his head. _I can’t tell from here._

Charles doesn’t stand yet. _Do you want to go?_

The flat look that Erik gives him clearly says _what else is there to do_ and so Charles gets up and brushes the dirt off of his pants. He rejoins Erik, but keeps some space between them.

The space isn’t preserved for long. The journey through the trees is more daunting than it had seemed. Roots have risen out of the ground unnaturally, as if the trees had kept the only the ends of them beneath the surface—as if they’d planted themselves here and, at the last moment, remembered the need for nutrition. The roots tangle together and slither around Charles’ feet. Some brush his ankles in a grotesque caress. He shivers.

 _It’s alright,_ Charles tells himself. He can’t help feeling more protective of his legs and feet. He’s stopped walking and is staring at the ground. When Charles notices this, he looks up and sees Erik in front of him on the top of a pile of roots. Erik is holding on to a low branch with one hand and extending the other to Charles. Charles gives Erik a tight smile and takes his hand. Erik pulls him up and over, and with that, they’re through.

“My goodness,” Charles breathes. Erik’s grip on his hand steadies him—if Erik wasn’t there, Charles may have fallen forward from the rush of seeing the city. It’s gorgeous: a strange mixture of buildings he remembers seeing in America, others in Europe, and many he does not recognize. They must be Erik’s.

The buildings are built of smooth stone, but their metal structures hum. Charles feels them resonating through Erik’s hand. “Come on,” Erik says, and Charles follows.

 

 

\---

 

 

The city is empty.

The buildings are bright in the sun, but it’s unclear to Charles whether the effect is from the sun’s reflection on their surface or a light that comes from within the buildings themselves. The ground is warm underneath his feet, but even the ground is empty.

Well, not exactly empty, but… lifeless in some way. But not— no, it’s foreboding— he can feel that there’s something—

Charles’s hand falls out of Erik’s and he stops walking. Erik keeps heading across the wide square they were walking through.

“Erik,” Charles calls weakly. “Erik, we have to—” _go leave get out_  

Charles can’t tell whether he’s hearing a voice or if the voice is his; if he’s being commanded or if he’s imploring Erik. “Erik,” he says again, voice faint. A dull roar is building around them and Charles doesn’t know if it’s just in his own head or actually real, actually there. Erik has paused and turned to look at back at Charles. He frowns. “Charles, what--?”

A beach, _that_ beach, and Erik in that helmet— and the Erik _before him_ standing and looking back at him in confusion has the apparition of that helmet around his head— scenes flash before Charles’ eyes and a sharp pain stabs his lower back. Charles groans and wraps his arms around his stomach, bending over slightly, eyes shutting. He grits his teeth against the pain and doesn’t sense Erik approaching until there are hands on his shoulders, running over his arms. _She didn’t do this, Erik,_ he hears, _you did_.

“What?” he hears Erik breathe, voice ragged, and then—

then it’s over, the pain and visions are gone, but Erik is being pulled away from him, Erik is—

“I can’t believe you _left my brother to die_!” Raven screams.

Charles straightens and opens his eyes to see that he and Erik have been surrounded by a huge mass of people and that Raven, in her blonde-haired human form, is attacking Erik. “Raven!” Charles yells, shocked. Erik isn’t fighting back. Charles rushes over to the two of them and pulls Raven off of Erik, but not before she can land one last punch: a sharp jab to Erik’s stomach that has him cursing and doubling over just as Charles had a few minutes ago.

“Raven, what on earth—?” Charles begins, gripping her forearms tightly and turning her to face him. As soon as she meets his eyes, she grimaces in apology and… disappears.

Charles looks at Erik, stunned, and then looks around them at the crowd that had formed and had been curling in ever closer while Raven fought with Erik. For all that telepathy had given Charles a great memory, its skill at remembrance was not so much for faces as for the feel of a person. Despite this, as he meets their eyes Charles knows that he has met each one of these people. Their glances meet his and slide away, their faces blank. Erik is the center of their circle, and it is steadily growing smaller.

“Hello,” Charles begins, “could you tell us—” One of the members of the crowd moves close to Erik and Charles is struck by a mindless wave of sheer _intent._ Erik must have felt it as well because he looks up, surprised. They’re boxed in now and a man fists his hands in the back of Erik’s jacket and roughly pulls him back and up—they don’t touch Charles, they just move past him towards Erik. They’re even gentle when they push Charles to the side.

“Hey!” Charles calls, once the fog from the eeriness of the situation leaves him, “let him go!”

The crowd freezes. They don’t release Erik, who is struggling to no avail, but they do all turn to Charles. The weight of their attention settles heavy on his shoulders, almost as if asking _what would you have us do? are you certain?_ and Charles shivers.

 _wouldn’t you rather—?_ he hears.

_don’t you deserve—? remember what happened— you dreamed of—_

“Stop,” Charles snaps. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I— leave. Leave us alone.”

They watch him for another moment.

Charles stands whatever ground he has.

The members of the crowd turn away from Charles to look at each other, and then lower Erik to the ground. When Charles takes a step toward Erik, they all vanish just as Raven had.

“Are you alright?” Charles murmurs, helping Erik stand.

Erik grunts. “I’ll be fine.”

Charles frowns in concern. “Are you sure?” His hands move to hover in front of Erik’s stomach, just shy of touching. He isn’t sure if he’s welcome. “We probably should get your stomach looked at.”

“And where would we do that, Charles?” Erik sighs, turning away from him and straightening his jacket. “We have disappearing people that don’t speak—I’m certain I could just choose to have a new body if I wanted.” Yet, Erik looks back at him. _could we?_ his expression asks. Charles bites his lower lip.

Erik must have figured it out, then—that their bodies feel solid and immutable. Charles wouldn’t even think of changing himself now.

Charles exhales shakily. “We’re in quite the situation, aren’t we, Erik.”

Erik nods and smiles bitterly. _At least we’re not alone_ , he thinks pointedly.

A warmth blooms in Charles’s chest. _Yes_.

Erik offers Charles his hand again, and Charles takes it. Erik hesitates, and then tugs Charles closer, closer, until he is standing right next to Erik, their chests almost flush together. Erik looks down at him and very carefully wraps his arms around Charles. Erik is holding himself very tightly; his body is rigid against Charles. He places a hand on the back of Charles’s head and holds him gently, as if Charles is something precious and fragile. He exhales and his breath brushes against Charles’s ear.

Charles presses his hands against Erik’s chest, closes his eyes, and breathes.

 

\---

 

They walk through the city as if looking for inhabitants. Charles sees shadows of people in the corners of his vision, but they vanish as soon as he turns his head to take a better look. The stone of the buildings is warm against their palms, but that’s all the city is; stone. But wait, wasn’t it metal before? Charles shakes his head. Wherever this world is aside, it was certainly indecisive.

When they reach the other side of the city, a low roaring begins behind them. Charles looks back--into the bright sun--and shields his eyes. Erik turns as well.

“Foam,” Erik says curiously.

“Froth,” Charles agrees.

The wave crashes against the buildings but another comes after it, taller and larger. It’s full of fish and other sea creatures, the water clear and bright. Its denizens pass through the buildings smoothly, as if unaware that anything is happening at all. The roaring and rushing grows louder as the waves come closer, sweeping through the buildings and instantly transforming them, covering them with seaweed and algae.

Charles turns to Erik. “I can’t move my feet.”

Erik looks down. “Neither can I.”

“But oddly,” Charles continues, “I’m not afraid. Not at all.”

He holds out his arms toward the waves and closes his eyes. Erik looks at Charles and then turns back to the wave. He closes his eyes, too.

The wave falls down on them, its water warm. They’re buffeted by the fish and seaweed and Erik turns to grab Charles’s shirt, pulling him close again. Charles clings to him throughout, holding his breath as long as he can. He’s going to drown, he’s going to die here, without seeing Raven again, his dear Raven, and oh, how he misses her--

“Charles.”

He treated her so badly, didn’t he, worsening her body image as much as he tried to help, always saying the wrong things, always--

“Charles!”

Charles opens his eyes. Erik is shouting at him and shaking him. Charles opens his mouth to gasp, the burning in his lungs too much, and finds that he can breathe. His eyes widen in wonder. “Erik,” he breathes.

Erik is a swaying image in front of him, Charles’s sight distorted by the water. He blinks, the bubbles from his breath catching in his eyelashes. Erik steps back, letting go of Charles, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “We’ve got to keep going,” Erik says.

“Erik,” Charles says helplessly, “where are we even going?”

“I built you a house, but it’s not here,” Erik says cryptically. “It’s beautiful, you’ll love it. But we have to go there for you to see it.” He pauses, then adds, “obviously.”

“Is that where you’ve been leading me?” Charles asks. “Are we going back through the city? There’s...” he turns around to look behind them and sees a towering black wall, reaching up up up into the sky--water, whatever. “We can’t go back that way, I don’t think.”

“Yes, we’re going back through the city. But it’s different now,” Erik says with a smile. His voice is hypnotic. “Just follow me, Charles.”

Charles takes Erik’s hand once more. He’s doing that a lot, lately.

Erik turns and walks, pulling Charles behind him. Charles stumbles but catches his balance again easily, the gravity distorted just as much as their vision here underneath the sea. He looks up and sees a bright, blurry sphere above, which must be the sun (or moon, he can’t tell). The water seems to rise above them for forever.

Erik moves almost robotically, moving forward as if pulled on a leash, just a little too quickly for Charles to comfortably follow. “Slow down,” he calls, and Erik does.

They walk for what seems like hours, but Charles doesn’t get tired. There’s so much to see, after all. The buildings have crumbled and corroded around them and there’s fish and coral and whales that swim above them, pushing out waves with their fins that pick him and Erik up off of the seabed.

Charles would be lying if he said the reduction of gravity, their slight buoyancy down here, wasn’t exhilarating. It’s delightful; he finds himself laughing quietly. Erik looks back at him and grins, and Charles thinks this is perfect, Erik and he happy, exploring a new place with all the time in the world.

Eventually, they reach an upward slope in the ocean floor and begin to climb it. The climb seems to take longer than the walk did. Charles scrabbles past rocks and coral, digging his fingers into the wet sand and taking hold of the strong stalks of seaweed that wave above them as he pulls himself up.

When they break the surface, Charles is startled to find that they’re both dry. He looks back and the ocean is just an ocean, stretching for miles. He can’t see anything but water on either side, and wonders if they’re on an island. Charles walks out of the water and looks forward to see Erik smiling at him, and a lovely beach house behind him.

“Oh, Erik,” Charles breathes.

It has floor-to-ceiling doors of glass and long, flowing curtains behind them (with screens, of course) that blow in the faint breeze, the doors open right now. Charles walks inside to see wood flooring (beech?) and beautiful granite countertops in the kitchen with rich wood cabinets. The bedroom also has glass doors and faces the beach and the sun that’s currently rising over the ocean. He can see a firepit and benches on the beach.

“It’s wonderful,” Charles says, turning.

Erik is smiling and walks up to him, leaning down to kiss Charles softly. “I’m glad you like it,” he murmurs.

“How could I not?” Charles asks. “What else is in this house?”

“Two offices, one with plenty of notebooks for you to observe the wildlife,” Erik answers. “I also put a small lab in the back, though you’ll have to come through it and check its specifications. I’m not too familiar with anything other than what I saw when I was... with Shaw.”

Charles frowns in concern and cups Erik’s cheek. “Well, we’ll just see what you have, and maybe I can change it.” They may not be mutable any longer, but perhaps this world still is. And yet, the idea is almost... silly, to Charles. What type of world is mutable? Why would he want to change this perfect house? And who says that they were in the ‘wrong’ place? They were happy--isn’t that enough?

Who says this isn’t the real world, and everything else wasn’t a bad dream?

 

\---

 

They aren’t hungry, so they don’t make any food, even though Erik’s made sure the kitchen is fully stocked; full to bursting, really.

Almost as soon as it rose, the sun began to set. Charles stands behind the open doors, watching the sea. Erik comes up behind him and places a hand on his shoulder. Charles looks up at him and smiles.

“Would you like to come to bed?” Erik asks, brushing his hand down Charles’s arm.

“I’d like that,” Charles answers, and follows Erik to the bed.

They sit against the headboard, still with a view of the sea. Erik wraps his arm around Charles’s shoulders. Charles takes Erik’s other hand in his and laces their fingers together.

“Erik,” Charles says, his voice suddenly serious, “I think we need to talk.”

“I,” Erik says, his own voice choked and surprised, “I’m sorry.”

Charles looks up. “You keep apologizing. You need to tell me why.”

“I...” Erik looks down and then away from Charles. “I hurt you. I left you on that beach.”

“Ah,” Charles says sadly, and sighs. “I suppose you did.”

“I’m amazed you’ll even look at me,” Erik says quietly. He squeezes Charles’s hand.

 _It’s because I love you_ , Charles thinks to himself.

“Don’t worry about that,” Charles says, unlacing their hands and placing his on top of Erik’s. He presses down, not sure what he is trying to convey.

“But I do,” Erik protests. “I don’t understand you, Charles.”

“Do you need to?” Charles asks, looking up at him again.

Erik meets his eyes. “I want to,” he murmurs, and kisses him.

Charles closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, placing his hand upon Erik’s chest. When Erik pushes forward into the kiss, more aggressive, Charles makes a small whine in the back of his throat. Erik turns, pushing Charles down into the bed, and holds himself up above him. Charles slides his hands over Erik’s chest and shoulders into his hair, pulling him closer. Erik licks into Charles’s mouth, humming pleasantly, and rests his weight on his forearms and either side of Charles’s head.

Charles eventually slows the kiss. He presses another to Erik’s cheek and ear, and moves his arms down, just to hold him.

“If you want to understand me,” he says quietly, “know that this is all I want.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Erik dreams.

He dreams that he’s caught up in wind, that he is the wind.

He rushes over their first cottage, over the fields and across the train tracks, past the cliffs and through the forest. He moves through the city and dances between the buildings. The waves crash again as they did before and Erik moves above them, hovering. He starts backward from where he came, and turns right in the middle of his path. Soon he comes to the beach house and sees Charles, standing as he was last night between the windows.

Erik slows his flight and moves downward, becoming smaller. Charles looks up in his direction and smiles, wide and open-mouthed, and holds his arms open.

Charles gathers him together in his arms, and Erik knows he is home.

 

\--

 

Erik wakes slowly and realizes that they fell asleep in their clothes, leaning back up against the headboard. Charles is curled up against him, head pillowed on his chest, expression peaceful. Erik brushes the hair out Charles’s eyes and Charles stirs and makes a soft noise, shifting slightly.

Later, after Charles has woken and Erik’s made them both breakfast, encouraging Charles to eat seconds even through Charles’s protests, they walk to the beach.

Charles takes Erik’s hand in his own and slips off his shoes. He rolls up his trousers and steps into the sand, wiggling his toes. Erik does the same (minus toe wiggling). The sand is warm beneath their feet.

“Though growing up on the east coast, I never spent much time at the beach,” Charles says. “Raven and I were confined to the house and school, mostly.”

“The only times I was at beaches was while I was chasing Shaw,” Erik says.

Charles looks over at him, frowning. “Yes. I’m glad that’s all over.”

Erik lifts an eyebrow. “Are you? You didn’t seem that happy with how it played out.”

“Of course I wasn’t,” Charles sighs, looking down. “You know how I feel about killing as a ‘solution.’” He turns to Erik again and smiles. “But I’m happy, Erik, for you. I’m happy it’s over.”

“I’ve avenged my mother,” Erik says, “and myself. I didn’t know how else to do it.” He takes his hand away from Charles and holds out his palms, looking at them. “Killing him was all I wanted to do.”

“It became your obsession,” Charles says, expression sympathetic. He places his hands on Erik’s shoulder and steps close beside him. “But that’s over now.”

Erik takes one of Charles’s hands and kisses his knuckles, eyes closed. He opens them when he looks at Charles and murmurs, “We’ll make better memories on this beach.”

 

\---

 

They spend weeks, months there.

There is always the right food in the kitchen for what Erik wants to cook, and there are always enough pens and paper for Charles to go down to the beach and take notes on various sea creatures. He even sketches some.

Erik always sweeps the sand out of the kitchen and Charles always manages to somehow fall asleep on the couch before bed.

They lay together, entwined, every night. Their sleep is dreamless and light now, and everything is seemingly perfect.

“Charles,” Erik says one day during dinner, his eyes and voice rather serious.

“Yes?” Charles asks, fork of pasta halfway to his mouth.

Erik says, “I want to take you to bed tonight.”

Charles can’t help his face flushing slightly. “Erik,” he says. “Alright.”

They leave dinner on the table and Erik holds out a hand that Charles takes, leading him to the bedroom. It’s wonderful that they can be so direct now and have as little awkwardness as possible. Sometimes Charles isn’t sure whether they’re speaking out loud or to each other’s minds.

 _I’ve wanted you,_ he hears Erik think as Erik unbuttons Charles’s shirt.

Charles presses his hands against Erik’s chest. “I’ve wanted you,” he says.

Erik pushes Charles’s shirt off his shoulders and noses his jaw. “Since the night in the ocean when I first saw you. You and your eyes.”

 _My eyes?_ Charles thinks, but pulls Erik’s shirt off all the same.

Erik mouths at Charles’s neck and Charles’s eyes flutter shut. He sighs softly, wrapping his arms around Erik’s back and holding him there. Erik is making quick work of Charles’s pants and soon they’re unzipped and undone; Charles steps out of them and the rest of his clothes, fully naked. Erik’s gaze is not hungry, per se, but it is appreciative in a way Charles has seen before, but never from Erik. Usually Erik’s eyes are soft when he looks at Charles, affectionate, but this time his mouth is a faint smile and his pupils have dilated, almost as if he looks intrigued.

 _Why do I feel like a virgin?_ Charles scoffs at himself. He’s blushing, the redness spreading down from his cheeks to his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Erik says.

Charles only blushes more deeply. “Erik,” he says, almost chiding. There’s something about their names and the way the other says them. In here, they begin sentences or even convey meanings by simply saying the other’s name, and the other understands completely what is trying to be said.

“Come here,” Erik says, and leads Charles to the bed, laying him down gently. He stands and removes the rest of his clothing, and then kneels over Charles, giving his attention back to him. Erik kisses Charles softly, and then more deeply. Charles’s hands come up to rest in Erik’s hair, holding his head.

“Do you remember the last time we did this?” Erik whispers into Charles’s ear.

“We’ve never done this, Erik,” Charles says quietly.

“I suppose that’s what I meant, then,” Erik says, and kisses him again.

He takes his time with Charles, smoothing his hands over his chest and thighs. Erik takes Charles’s cock in hand and Charles sighs, shifting beneath him, his eyes lidded. “Erik,” Charles breathes.

“I know,” Erik says, and lets go.

He sits back from where he’s straddling Charles. “What do you want?” Erik asks.

“I want you,” Charles says, puzzled. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Yes,” Erik says, smirking, “that is obvious. But _how_ do you want me?”

Charles shrugs. “How do you want me?”

Erik leans down again, brushing his lips against Charles’s cheek. Charles strokes his hands down Erik’s back. “I want to be inside you,” Erik breathes, and Charles shudders. “Then that’s how I want you,” he says.

There’s lubricant in the drawer of the bedside table (of course) and Erik prepares Charles slowly and gently. By the time he’s up to his third finger inside of him, Charles’s face is a deep red and he’s panting, pulling one leg up by the back of his knee so that Erik can move his fingers in deeper.

“Come on,” Charles sighs. “I’m not going to last long.”

“Are you ready?” Erik asks.

Charles turns his head to the side, moaning softly as Erik continues to move his fingers in and out of him. “Yes,” he gasps. “Come on.”

So Erik pushes inside him. They move together, Erik rolling his hips into his thrusts and Charles lifting his own hips up to meet him. Erik lays his arms alongside Charles’s head and plants open-mouthed kisses along his neck and shoulders, listening to Charles’s gasps and moans. Charles digs his fingers into Erik’s back, but gently, just holding on. _This is not sex_ , Charles thinks to himself through the haze of pleasure, _this is something I’ve never done before. This must be what they call making love._

 

\---

 

One night Charles opens his eyes to see the sea lapping up against their doorstep.

He blinks blearily and rubs at his eyes, wondering if what he’s seeing is real. A small voice in the back of his head says _none of this is_ , but he ignores it--it’s lying; this is real because it’s what he wants.

The water moves in, closer and closer, and Erik is asleep beside him, aware of nothing. Charles pushes at his shoulder but Erik doesn’t wake, just rolls over and pulls Charles closer to him. The water is at the edge of the bed now and rising, and soon it comes above the bed.

The bed doesn’t float. In fact, it’s as if it’s weighed down. Charles and Erik are not, however, and the sea carries them up and pulls them out of the room. Charles closes his eyes and holds his breath, but when he looks over at Erik, he’s breathing peacefully. Charles tightly takes hold of Erik’s wrist and tugs him closer, but the sea pulls them apart.

“Erik!” Charles calls, air bubbling out of his mouth. Erik is drawn away from him under the waves, still asleep, still aware of nothing.

Charles swims up to the surface and breathes in the fresher air. All he can see is the sea; their beach house must be submerged. The waves buffet him and he goes under and above again and again. This time he and his clothes are soaked. Water falls into his eyes and Charles blinks it out, the droplets falling down his cheeks.

“Erik,” he breathes. Where is Erik? Is he alright? Is he at the bottom of the sea? “Erik!” Charles yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. But he’s answered by nothing but the sounds of the waves.

 

\---

 

The sea pulls Charles along for hours and he drifts, head above the waves. He begins to hear the call of seagulls and a sound that seems it might be the crashing of waves against land. Charles turns toward the sound and indeed it is-- there’s an island full of trees, its beach littered with tall, black rocks.

When he makes it to the shore, drenched, Charles pulls himself up and coughs. He does his best to brush the wet sand off of himself but his attempt has little success. He has seaweed wrapped around his ankles and he peels it off, shuddering slightly and frowning at it.

There’s a fog around the tops of the rocks and trees, and the beach is wider and longer than he had thought. Charles walks through arches of gleaming rock, running his hands down their smooth sides. It’s as if they’d fallen straight out of the sky and landed here, he thinks. And, not all of the rocks are black. Some are tan and not smooth; jagged and sharp against his hands. _What a strange place_.

 

\---

 

Erik, on the other hand, wakes up in clouds.

He sinks into them a few inches. The ground is not that steady beneath him. The clouds around his feet are cool and wet, and he bounces ever so slightly when he walks. The air is also cool, and humid, as if there were a light rain.

He looks around himself and sees a door, behind him but far away. He turns and starts walking there.

It’s quiet up in the clouds and there are no birds flying through, he notes. By the time he reaches the door he’s covered in beads of dew and reaches up to wipe at his face. The door is a light tan with a purple knob, the wood of it clean but worn. Erik places his hand around the knob. It’s warm underneath his palm.

He turns the knob and steps inside.

 

\---

 

No matter how far he walks, water is still lapping against Charles’s ankles. He looks back and sees that the beach has grown smaller; the large rocks are now sticking up out of the water. “Are you following me?” Charles asks the sea. Seemingly in response, a small wave hits the backs of his calves.

He’s reached the edge of the beach now. In front of him is a forest, the tops of the trees shrouded in fog. Charles walks into the forest, the grass and dirt damp beneath his feet from dew. The forest is quiet as he walks--he hears no birds, no squirrels, no animals at all, just the wind. The fog is heavier above him than around him, but he’s still covered in small beads of water and he blinks them out of his eyelashes, just as he did with the seawater.

 _Everything is water_ , Charles thinks suddenly, and the trees before him sway unnaturally, shimmering in what sunlight breaks through the fog. Charles continues to walk, stepping over fallen trees. When he steps on a particularly sharp branch and hisses, he notices for the first time that his feet are barefoot, and have been since he entered the sea. He can’t quite remember where he was before this beach, but he knows he was with Erik, and that he is not with Erik now.

As he walks, the quiet finally breaks into soft sounds of birds and animals scurrying through the undergrowth. A fawn scampers across the path before him and he nearly walks into a flying robin. Charles presses his hand against the damp bark of a tree and pauses in his walk, breathing in the fresh air.

He’d never had this as a child, this wilderness. Everything was sterile and manicured in the Westchester house.

Charles smiles softly and keeps walking.

 

\---

 

The door opens into an empty room. Erik steps inside. His feet are bare, he notices, and there is sawdust at the edges of the room. He looks towards the windows and sees only white light through them, nothing else, no outside at all.

There is another door and Erik opens it to walk into another empty room.

Another door. Another empty room. Another door again, and another empty room. As he walks, the rooms become more and more furnished, and more and more doors appear on the walls. In a fully furnished room that Erik doesn’t recognize but that reminds him of Westchester, he opens the third door on the right. There is a large screen in front of him and on it is projected a smiling picture of a young Raven. It ripples and then changes into a picture of his mother, smiling as well. Erik blinks against the sudden tears that well up and wipes his eyes, ashamed at the sudden rush of emotion.

He closes the door and walks back into the room, which has become the kitchen of his childhood house. There are gaps and blank spaces in the ceiling and the corners, which must be, he thinks, what he cannot remember about it. The menorah is out on the table and none of the candles are lit.

 

\---

 

Charles keeps walking and comes suddenly to a door in the middle of the woods. He steps around it, curious, and sees that there is nothing behind it. When he opens it, however, he sees an empty room, the edges of it full of sawdust. He steps inside.

 

\---

 

 

Erik stares at the menorah for several minutes.

Many things pass through his mind--memories of his mother and father, memories of himself on the road while hunting Shaw, memories of seeing children playing, memories of seeing Charles and Raven--all the memories are connected for him in their own way but the emotion of them he keeps distant, leashed. The expression on his face is blank, for all that his hands are shaking.

 _Where am I?_ he thinks briefly, but the thought disappears and is forgotten as soon as it crosses his mind.

Erik turns away from the table and looks at the doors lining the walls of the room.

 _What am I doing?_ Again, like the previous one, this thought is alive for only a second before it is taken from his memory.

 

 

\---

 

Charles walks through room after empty room.

 

\---

 

 

“No,” Erik says. He turns around in a circle, looking at all of the doors. “No,” he says again. “No.” _Walls aren’t normally covered with doors,_ he thinks, _this is wrong_.

Suddenly he flinches, feeling like a weight has slammed into his head. Erik’s hands fly to his face and he presses them against his temples, gritting his teeth. _This is normal_ , he thinks. _This not normal,_ he thinks.

Erik opens his eyes and runs to one of the doors. There is a thudding sound like giant’s footsteps coming from far away. When he opens the door, he sees only a wall of blood and hears a woman’s--his mother’s--scream. Erik gasps and slams the door shut.

He runs to another door. The wall behind it is a deep blue with white oozing from the top, bubbling over with froth. The sound Erik hears from this door is muffled sobbing. His mother’s sobbing. Someone’s sobbing. Is it his mother? Was that scream his mother? Who was his mother? Did he have a mother? What-- what is-- what is a mother? What does that word mean?

 

\----

 

Charles sees no furniture, sees no doors but the one in front and the one behind him. All of the rooms are the same, except for the fact that the more he walks what looks to be forward, the more he hears strange slamming sounds and-- was that a scream? He frowns and walks more quickly, worried. _Erik_ , the thought comes, unbidden, and Charles’s heart begins to pound.

 

\---

 

 

Erik yells in frustration, tearing open door after door and slamming them shut, seeing rainbows of colors and hearing more and more sounds of pain. There is yellow and the sound of breaking bone, there is orange and the sound of and also the smell of burning flesh, there is green and the--

“Stop,” Erik groans, “stop!”

The thudding noise has grown louder and grows louder still. Soon it is so loud that Erik cannot hear anything else, even if he opens the doors.

_THUD. THUD. THUD._

He slams the doors shut and covers his ears, turning around while he tries to figure out where the thudding noise is coming from because he’ll be damned if he goes down without a fight.

Behind Erik’s back, one of the doorknobs begins to turn.

 

\---

 

As soon as Charles steps inside the room, all of the doors close and lock. Erik is still in the center of the room, hands over his ears, eyes scrunched shut in pain. All of the furniture has disappeared.

“Erik!” Charles says, rushing toward him. There is no thudding noise now. There is just the sound of Charles’s footsteps upon the wood floor as he runs to Erik.

Erik opens his eyes and looks up at Charles from where he is kneeling on the floor. His eyes do not focus on Charles’s eyes or face. He is trapped in something that Charles does not know-- some nameless horror that Charles cannot see. Charles shakes him, saying, “Erik, Erik!” and Erik blinks, tries to focus, thinks he sees Charles but is not sure.

“Charles,” he gasps at the fuzzy image in front of him, “are you there?”

“Yes,” Charles says, his voice breaking, “yes, Erik, I’m here.”

Erik clutches Charles’s arms and tries to pull himself upright, but only ends up pulling Charles down to his knees alongside Erik.

“Make it stop, Charles,” Erik pleads. Unbeknownst to Charles, the doors are still open in Erik’s mind, filling his ears with the different sounds of pain. The sounds are assaulting, nearly physically painful, and Erik winces.

“I-- I don’t know what it is that I should stop,” Charles says, but Erik can’t make out his words and shakes his head, face still screwed up in pain.

So Charles thinks _stop_ forcefully until Erik’s eyes open, until Erik can stand and pull Charles up with him. The doors have closed for Erik and the sounds have stopped. He thinks of kissing Charles but doesn’t, and Charles just cups Erik’s jaw, looking at him with a relieved smile.

“Welcome back,” Charles says. Erik smiles faintly.

“Here, let’s get out of this place,” Charles says, and takes Erik’s hand. He leads him back through all the doors and empty rooms and into the forest.

 

\----

 

The forest, however, has been replaced by mountains.

There is a lake in the valley beneath them.

“I can’t decide if I’m getting tired of these shifts or not,” Charles says, still holding Erik’s hand. “I feel like... I feel like this _world_ or _place_ is wrong but I also feel like it is right.” He turns to Erik. “Do you understand?”

Erik nods. “It’s a strange duality. I forgot how we came to be here but I find that I don’t really care.”

“I don’t either,” Charles murmurs. “I wonder if that’s bad.”

 _I’m happy to be here with you_ , Erik thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud and shields the thought from Charles, keeps it private.

“I think I should...” Charles begins, voice growing tight. “I think I should probably be worried about it, but I’m not.” He looks at Erik. “I’m not, Erik. Is that wrong?”

Erik kisses Charles and squeezes his hand. Charles places a hand on Erik’s chest and pushes him away gently. “I’m serious.”

“Erik, I think this world is real and not real at the same time. Please tell me which one it is,” Charles pleads, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Erik’s shirt.

“Does it matter?” Erik says, the words coming unbidden, almost as if he’s a puppet, “We’re together, Charles.”

Charles takes a step away from Erik, frightened. “You’re not Erik,” he says, “Erik would be just as, if not more, worried than I am.” It’s an odd _get behind me, satan_ moment and Charles swallows. He’s not sure if this is Erik or not. He knows there might be the possibility in this world, but everything is trying to convince him that it _is_ Erik truly. And yet.. yet he knows he’s encountered this before, here. A fake Erik.

Charles balls up his fists. “What did you do with him?”

“I’m Erik, Charles,” the body says. “ _I’m Erik, Charles._ ” The body’s voice becomes distorted, and tendrils of smoke escape from its mouth--Erik’s mouth?--that vibrate when it speaks. “ _I’M ERIK, CHARLES._ ”

“No!” Charles yells, taking more steps back. “Get out! Get away! Give me back Erik!”

The body’s eyes glow black and drip out onto the ground, and the rest of the world goes black as well. The body now has red pupils in empty sockets, glowing menacingly, its skin becoming an ashy grey. Charles takes more steps back, quickening his pace until suddenly he leans backward too far and begins to fall off the mountain.

The last thing he sees are the body’s menacing eyes as it runs towards him.

 

 

\---

 

 

Erik, however, just sees Charles back away from him in horror no matter what he says. Why-- why is Charles backing away from him? Suddenly he sees Charles begin to fall and Erik rushes toward him, but when he grips Charles’s wrist, Charles’s arm turns to ash and it falls through his fingers.

 


End file.
